


The Backup

by Anonymous



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Archivist Sasha James, Asexual Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Author is Queer And Autistic, Autistic Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Canon-Typical The Beholding Content (The Magnus Archives), Canon-Typical The Corruption Content (The Magnus Archives), Canon-Typical The Lonely Content (The Magnus Archives), Captivity, Conditioning, Desolation Avatar Tim Stoker (The Magnus Archives), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Found Family, Eventual Happy Ending, Hunt Avatar Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, It/Its Pronouns For Michael | The Distortion (The Magnus Archives), Lonely Avatar Martin Blackwood, Past Abuse, Past Sexual Abuse, Rape Recovery, Rape/Non-con Elements, Recovery, Sasha Was Always The Archivist, Slaughter Avatar Melanie King, They All Survived The Unknowing, Torture, Trans Martin Blackwood, Unlike SOME Works Of Fiction, not that relevent he just IS
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:28:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 30,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28161675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: She wasn’t sure what she had been expecting. Some eldritch horror, perhaps, a giant spider or a creature made entirely of eyes or some great crawling mass of insects (she had been told about Jane Prentiss, and was secretly glad she’d never had to see her in person; she would never tell anyone, but bugs creeped her out more than most things).But the thin figure curled up on the floor was painfully human.*Jonathan Sims never signed a contract with The Magnus Institute, and Sasha James succeeded Gertrude Robinson as Head Archivist, just like she always wanted, and bound herself to powers she had no understanding of. Yet.Some things change. A lot of things don't.For one, Jonah Magnus never lost sight of the potential he saw in Jon.
Relationships: Elias Bouchard/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Georgie Barker/Melanie King, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Peter Lukas/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 171
Kudos: 497
Collections: Anonymous





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings for this chapter:
> 
> Description of injury and scars  
> Mention of blood  
> Injuries that allude to rape  
> Mention of eye trauma  
> Description of the effects of starvation
> 
> Let me know if there's anything else in this chapter I need to tag!

It was disappointing, at the end of the day, just how easy it was to kill Jonah Magnus.

Daisy breathed deep, inhaling blood, sweat, and the last lingering hints of _fear_ that still permeated the air, fresh and mouth watering as homemade bread. The body that had once belonged to Elias Bouchard sat lifeless and blind, on the inertly plump and cosy sofa that took up the majority of the living room.

_“I’m surprised he even has a place to live,” Martin said, as they gazed up apprehensively at the belly of the beast. “Kinda just figured he stayed at the Archives all the time, you know? Slept in a secret compartment in his office. Or maybe just hung upside down.” It had gotten a laugh out of Tim at least, before Sasha hushed them._

_“Look,” she hissed, “He already Knows we’re coming, so just…be prepared for anything, when we go in.”_

_“Oh? You don’t Know what’s going to happen then?” Melanie had spat out. Daisy wasn’t an avatar of the Eye by any means, and she wanted to keep it that way, but the Hunt had a way of pointing out vulnerability and fear._

_Sasha had made a mess of her radar ever since they had met. She remembered the way she had gasped and fought in the forest, with that pathetic penknife pressed against her throat. Daisy winced, guilty for the rush of adrenaline and nourishment the memory still gave her, even now as she looked at the woman who she now called one of her closest friends._

_She looked so tired._

_“I don’t really do hypotheticals, Melanie. I…I’d prefer not to Know as much as I possibly can. Especially after this. Hopefully after this. Are we ready?”_

_Their motley crew, each of them scarred and changed in unimaginable ways since the first time they had stepped foot into The Magnus Institute, looked around each other, and nodded._

_“Right.” Basira said, flicking the safety off of her service pistol that should almost certainly have been handed in a while ago. “Let’s kill Jonah Magnus.”_

Now Basira’s gun was empty, and she tucked it discreetly back into the inside of her jacket. Her eyes turned to Daisy, full of the familiar concern that just bordered on patronising at the worst of times.

“I’m fine. Just...full.” Daisy insisted, wiping her hand across her face. She could feel the sticky residue of blood, and she wondered if it was from her face or her hand. There was so much _fear_ in the air.

“Huh.” Tim knelt beside the body, lifting its head one way then the other, raising an arm and watching it fall limp again. “It was really that easy? Damn shame.” The room grew just a few degrees warmer where Daisy was standing by him, and she shot him a warning glare. “Sorry, sorry! Was just hoping to get more of a dramatic showdown with the bastard, you know? We’re still torching the place, though, right? You promised.” He looked towards Sasha with what Daisy could only describe as puppy dog eyes. Sasha didn’t seem to find the humour in it.

“We have the eyes, we just need to make sure that they’re destroyed. Then no more Magnus, no more institute, no more archives.” She said.

“Oh? Then what happens to the _archivist_ ? Or have you decided against the Eric Delano route after all,” Melanie sneered, fiddling with her penknife. Daisy didn’t mind Melanie, and Basira seemed to enjoy her company, but it...irked her, sometimes, how much joy she took in Sasha’s discomfort. How much they all did, to an extent. Daisy may have thought of Sasha as a murderer once upon a time, but not only had it not been true, Daisy had murdered time and time again and had been _easily_ forgiven. 

Sasha didn’t answer, and instead got to the grisly task of removing Jonah’s mutilated eyes. Martin stood in the corner, fiddling with the hem of his jumper, looking around as if searching for a kettle that wouldn’t be there. Tim was pacing the floor, playing idly with Sasha’s lighter, eyes darting about in that way that Daisy knew meant he was looking for the best place for a flame to catch and spread. Melanie and Basira had found a corner to sit and breathe.

But Daisy’s hackles wouldn’t rest.

The air stank of fear, putrid and compelling. This was by no means uncommon; the Archives had the scent permeated into the very walls of the place, every statement, every tape, every _person_ perfumed with a terror that was bone deep. She hadn’t noticed it in the house, the nervousness clouding the air thick and heady, and with the unfamiliar scent of _Jonah_ ’ _s_ fear to contest with, she hadn’t paid it any mind.

But there was something new here, something unfamiliar, soaked into the floorboards, _years_ old. She could almost visualise the trail, leading through the house. She crouched down, closed her eyes, and blocked out everything around her as best she could. The house was three stories above the ground, the kind that was usually separated into flats but had been owned long enough to have been kept full, every room filled to the brim with books and loose papers, but there was something else. The house had a basement. Like a still beating heart, the floor beneath her seemed to thump in an intoxicating rhythm. Every part of Daisy’s body thrummed and pulsed with the knowledge; there was _prey_ here.

She was brought out of it with a hand on her back, and it took everything in her not to bite the offending arm it was attached to. Basira was by her side, that same sickening concern plastered over her face.

“Daisy, are you alright? Do we need to go?” She asked seriously, Daisy looked around. She had seemed to have garnered the attention of the rest of the room, expressions ranged from curiosity to apprehension, as if she would leap and attack at any moment.

“Someone…” she cleared her throat in an attempt to remove the growl that was building in the back of it, “someone else…someone else is here, I can feel it.”

“What?” Sasha leapt to her feet, her body tight and defensive, eyes darting to both the doors that led into the room. “Who?”

“I’m not with the bloody eye, James, I don’t know _who_ ,” she snapped, regretting it immediately. “I don’t know, but they’re downstairs. There’s a basement. They’re…they’re scared.”

There was an uneasy silence around the room. 

“Look, let’s just torch the place and get out.” Tim mumbled. “It’s probably just another trap, right? Eli- _Jonah_ Knew we were coming, he probably Knew there was a chance we’d actually beat him, or at least Knew that you had found those tapes from Gertrude,” he said, pointing to Sasha, “and set something up, right? So we wouldn’t make it out of here.”

“Wha- hey, now, someone’s _down_ there!” Martin sputtered. “You’re actually talking about setting this place alight when we know someone’s still in here, and we don’t even know who it _is-_ ”

“Whoever it is, they’re in Jonah Magnus’ fucking house, I don’t trust that one bit.”

“ _We’re also in his house-_ ”

“Hey!” Melanie called out. “We are _not_ having this conversation right now, there is no way we’re not at least going to check it out.” She took a deep breath. “Daisy…you said they’re scared?”

Daisy took a deep breath. “Yes.”

“If we go down there, do you think you’ll be able to keep yourself under control?” It wasn’t an unkind question, just a sadly necessary one. Daisy thought about it.

“I’m still...ah…all hunted out. Besides, if they _aren’t_ friendly, I’d rather be there, if that’s alright with you.”

Melanie nodded, and looked around the rest of them. “Well? If it’s alright with you lot, I think I’m going to go see why there’s a fucking _person_ underneath the house, tag along if you want. Daisy, lead the way.” Daisy nodded, and began to walk out of the living room, letting her nose guide her. Melanie followed, and when she looked back, she saw Martin had tagged along. 

The landing of the house was nothing to boast about, a few flashy art pieces on the walls, a side table with a vase that looked like it cost more than Daisy’s flat, and a large Persian rug that covered up the ancient, creaking floorboards. 

“Christ,” Martin murmured, “you’d have thought he’d change up the floorboards, wouldn’t you? Everything else is so…modern.”

Daisy hummed, and trod onto the rug experimentally, noting the difference in texture. Her foot traced something, underneath the red, woolen fibres and against the uneven grain of the wood. Something square, and solid, with a distinct bump beneath her shoe. She stood off of it and tugged it away. The door stood heavy and disjointed against the floorboards, a thick lock bulging away from it. Thankfully, it wasn’t yellow.

“In there.” She said simply, stepping away with a deep breath. Melanie crouched down, inspecting the lock. “What do you think you’re doing? This isn’t a bloody spy novel.”

“Look, Ghost Hunt UK couldn’t always secure filming permission, alright? Sometimes, we had to get creative.” She dug into her jacket pocket and dug out a set of small tools from her wallet, looking carefully at the lock. “Give me a second, okay? Unless you want to go hunting around for the key.”

Martin stood to the side, his fists clenching and unclenching nervously. Daisy couldn’t think of anything she could say that would help, so she said nothing. She was far better at that.

Martin had been…struggling, lately. After The Unknowing had failed, with Tim very much embracing the flames and Sasha somehow alive and awake, there had been a change in the atmosphere. An atmosphere that was already incredibly unpleasant to be around was now poisonous. She hadn’t been there for most of it, admittedly. Not until Sasha had pulled her out of the ground herself.

There was no more office banter, no more after-work pints, no surprise birthday parties. No one wanted Martin’s tea, and eventually he had stopped making it. It had gotten worse when Jonah’s sea captain friend had started hanging around the archives, and had taken quite a liking to him. Peter Lukas was gone, but the fog had stayed, and sometimes when Daisy looked at him, she swore she could see it, turning the fine features of his body to a blur.

She and Martin had never properly clicked, and she could hardly blame him for that, not with their somewhat shaky start, but she did wish there was something that would make it easier for her to go off of on the times she found Martin crying in the offices, desperately trying to pretend he wasn’t.

There was a sharp click, and a small cry of triumph as Melanie stood up, the sturdy padlock undone in her hand. She made a dramatic sweeping gesture and bowed, stepping away from the door.

“Ladies first?”

“Bugger off.” Daisy grumbled.

She knelt down and tugged at the door. It was heavy, but the hinges didn’t so much as creak as she looked down. A stairway led down into a dark, womb-like room. She could make out anything, but she saw where the dim light of the corridor traced shapes in the shadows.

“Hello? Is there anyone down there?” She called out, her tone riding on the line of aggression and authority. There was no reply but she swear she saw something _shift_. She looked back at Melanie and Martin, hoping her face didn’t convey the apprehension that skittered in her gut. “Do either of you have a torch?”

Martin scrambled around in his pockets, pulling out his smartphone and turning on the camera torch. Daisy took it with a nod, and steeled herself, before turning it towards the room.

The basement was small, (not quite small enough to make her panic, not small and tight like _there_ , but it was enough that she noticed), constructed of bare concrete and stone, and empty but for a modest bed pressed up against the wall, and a metal bucket which was responsible for some of the less savoury odours that permeated the room. The fear was strong here, thick and concentrated, and it overpowered her.

She wasn’t sure what she had been expecting. Some eldritch horror, perhaps, a giant spider or a creature made entirely of eyes or some great crawling mass of insects (she had been told about Jane Prentiss, and was secretly glad she’d never had to see her in person; she would never tell anyone, but bugs creeped her out more than most things). 

But the thin figure curled up on the floor was painfully human.

They were curled up next to the bed, stark naked, and Daisy would have thought they were dead had it not been for the tremors that wracked their starved frame. They whimpered when the light fell on them, but otherwise gave no reaction. 

They were covered in scars. Familiar scars.

Holes were dug into their skin, all along their naked back and peppered up and down their arms, the same scars that Tim and Sasha carried. They were deep, and far more jagged than the perfect circles that her colleagues had. They hadn’t healed nearly so cleanly, it seemed. Burn scars were layered deep and painful against their dark, pockmarked skin, littered around their whole body, and Daisy inwardly cringed at the clear shape of burnt hand prints on their forearms, which were crossed where their forehead pressed into the floor, and on their hips, cruel and grasping.

That wasn’t to mention the sheer amount of bruises.

Their face was hidden, pressed into the ground and crowned by long, matted black hair that was peppered with streaks of grey. They had made no attempt to look up, or to address the new presence in the space.

“Daisy? Daisy, what’s- oh C _hrist_ -”

“Martin, wait up there.” She snapped, her training, her _actual_ training, kicking in for the first time in a while. “Melanie, get the others, tell Tim to get the car started and at the front of the house.”

“What? What do you mean wait- no, _no,_ Daisy, who _is_ that?” Martin’s voice had that high pitched hiss that Daisy knew meant he was spiraling, and she couldn’t exactly blame him. She heard Melanie walk away quickly, hopefully to do as she was bloody _told_ for once.

“I don’t know,” she hissed, “but we’re not going to leave him here. I don’t think so, anyways.” The figure whimpered again, and Daisy had to shut her eyes and take a deep breath, to quell the voice in her head that was growing stronger and _stronger_.

_They’re weak you’re strong they’re weak you’re strong they’re weak you’re strong hunt hunt hunt hunt hunt-_

“Who are you?” she called out, slowly descending the staircase, holding out the phone like she would a gun, if she had one. There was no response, but she saw their muscles stiffen in anticipation. “Can you speak?”

The smell was strong down here, and she fought not to gag. She shone the torch around the room. Daisy recognised bloodstains when she saw them, and she knew these ones were old. She didn’t know if that made the situation better or far, _far_ worse. 

She tried to edge closer, but that only made the figure shake harder. She was no good at this, and she hated to admit that the fear pouring off of the poor thing was making her a little intoxicated, which only served to make her feel sicker.

“Martin,” she called out behind her, “I need your help. I need to…step aside. Could you…?”

“Right, right yeah. Oh...C _hrist_ , okay.” She felt footsteps behind her, and Martin stood at her shoulder. Daisy was tall, stupidly tall, over six foot, and Martin met her in height, but was also just _bigger_. Where Daisy had the lean, firm muscles of a hunter, Martin was soft, and round, and comforting in a way Daisy could never say to his face.

Certainly more capable of handling whatever this was.

She handed Martin the phone and stepped back to sit on the stairs, watching as he awkwardly knelt down, next to the trembling pile of skin and bone.

“Hi, uh, I’m Martin. Martin Blackwood. We’re here to help? You don’t have to tell us your name or anything, if you’re not comfortable, but uh...we’re gonna get you out of here.” The figure went stock still, their ragged breathing shuddering to a halt. “It’s okay! It’s okay. We’re not here to hurt you, or anything. Are you hurt? Ah, silly question sorry, I… would you be able to sit up, so we can see if you’re-”

Before Martin could finish his sentence, the figure rose to an upright kneeling position, head still bowed low, their arms moving protectively around their torso. Daisy could see where the extensive scarring continued down their chest, ragged and painful, as well as layers of dark, deep bruising, likely from some blunt object. Their hair fell down to cover their face, but now Daisy could see the ragged strips of fabric that had been tied round their head, forcing their mouth open, and revealing the balled fabric that was gagging them. Martin swore softly, reaching behind their head to undo the knots.

“Oh _shit_ , I’m so sorry, I didn’t realise, just, ah, give me a second, these knots are kind of tight.” They made no effort to move, but Daisy could see their eyes darting round in the dim light, trying to see what Martin was doing. Martin let out a little exclamation of victory as the rags loosened, and he tugged them gently from the figure’s mouth. They didn’t resist, and only coughed as Martin pulled out the small bundle. 

“Sorry, I didn’t realise, or I would have…wait what…what’s…?”

Daisy furrowed her brow, and looked closer at what Martin held in his hand. Bound in the rough, saliva soaked rags that had been used to gag them, was something black, and small, and something Daisy could only dream of recognising from nostalgia alone.

A cassette tape.

Martin looked back at Daisy, eyes wide with questions, when footsteps from the floor above them called their attention, and before they could tell her not to, Melanie came barreling down the stairs.

“Hey, Tim’s out in the front, Sasha is taking her sweet time, apparently the _Eye_ told her to pick something up on the way out, but we’re ready-”

The figure’s eyes darted up at the new presence in the room for a split second, before they cringed and began to lower their head, shoulders hunched against an invisible threat. Melanie froze mid-step, and when Daisy looked back, she saw something far more alarming than the mask of fury and cunning that Melanie usually wore.

Recognition.

“Holy fuck,” Melanie hissed. “Jon? Is that you?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If he had really fucked up so much, then Elias would be bringing a few friends today. Maybe he’d earned a new mark, or some new twisted horror he hadn’t thought of before. All he could do was what he was told.
> 
> Shut your mouth, eyes on the floor, do what they ask of you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, this is earlier than I was planning because I didn't want to wait! Fuck upload schedules, all my homies hate upload schedules.
> 
> Warnings for this chapter:
> 
> Conditioned mindset  
> Expectation of rape and torture  
> Very brief flashbacks to rape  
> Nudity  
> Some very very minor injury description

Jon had been good. He had been _good_.

It got so cold there, especially in the winter (at least he _thought_ it was winter. His scars always flared up in the wintertime, and Elias had started to wear a scarf again during his visits, so that must have meant it was getting cold outside at least), but he had stayed perfectly still, huddled on the floor, even though his knees ached and his ribs still _throbbed_ from earlier, _don’t complain don’t think about it he’ll see and he’ll Know,_ he had stayed where he was told to, where he was _always_ told to.

The bed, as sick as it made him feel, looked so terribly inviting right now.

His fingernails dug into his forearms in chastisement and he whimpered. The bed wasn’t for him, he _knew_ the bed wasn’t for him.

_“If my friends want to use you, it’s hardly fair they should have to make do with the floor.” Elias had explained, his hands tight around Jon’s hips as he christened the new mattress with each bruising, tearing thrust of his hips. Jon just concentrated on making as little noise as possible. “It’s hardly_ comfortable _, taking you there on the ground, and I’d rather not sully this suit as much as I have to, though you_ do _make it rather difficult.”_

_He tugged Jon’s hair up, bringing his ear close to his mouth._

_“This bed isn’t yours, little archivist. And unless you’ve been instructed to, I would be very upset to find you’ve taken advantage of it’s placement within your room. Am I clear?”_

_“Y-yes, Sir,” he gasped, worried he might not be heard, but he supposed he had been understood as Elias dropped his head back down, changing his angle to test how quiet Jon was really able to be…_

He cringed. He had tried, back then, to climb up onto the bed whilst Elias wasn’t there, to spend even just a few minutes under the covers, to feel the mattress press gently into his battered body, but Elias knew. He _always_ knew. Jon hadn’t been able to accept it in the beginning and had spent many hours scouring his cell for cameras or microphones, before realising it didn’t _matter_ how Elias knew, he just did. And he always would. 

He had been happy, almost _kind_ lately. Every now and then, after a visit, or after a friend of his had been by, he would sit with Jon, and run a hand through his hair, even letting him rest his head against the mattress whilst he sat on the floor. He told Jon how well ‘the plan’ was going, how good he had been, and for a while it was bearable. He thought it could stay bearable. 

He shivered as he curled tighter into himself on the ground, and tried to think of how he could _possibly_ have fucked up. 

The gag lodged into his mouth was thick and it made his jaw ache, which wasn’t quite enough to distract from the ache that permeated his body, racing through his chest whenever he breathed too deep, throbbing through his most-likely-broken nose, and the burning flare deep down inside where it made him squirm to think about. 

The footsteps overhead weren’t helping to calm him.

If he had really fucked up so much, then Elias would be bringing a few friends today. Maybe he’d earned a new mark, or some new twisted horror he hadn’t thought of before. All he could do was what he was told.

_Shut your mouth, eyes on the floor, do what they ask of you._

The door was tugged open, and he struggled to keep his composure. There were maybe three of them, judging by the footfall, which sent apprehension skittering over his nerves. There was a quiet murmur, and then a bright light on his back, and he couldn’t help but whimper. 

He hoped it wasn’t more one of Elias’s more…fiery friends.

There were voices, urgent and hurried, and Jon felt a great wave of confusion pass through him, a whimper leaving him before he could stop it, and he cringed. None of them were Elias’s voice. There was the hushed hiss of argument, and hasty footsteps as one of them retreated, and still none of them had-

“Who are you?” One of the voices called out at last. “Can you speak?” Such an odd question. Who else would he be? He couldn’t speak, and would prefer not to try. Footsteps were drawing closer, and he braced himself. They would likely punish him for not answering them quickly, gag be damned, but it was far better than being punished for speaking out of turn. 

_Where on earth was Elias?_

The figure was another one of them he was sure. Another monster. He could feel it coming off of them in waves, something familiarly primal and predatory. He felt something from the other one too. It was distant, and cold. Just like…

He shivered. They were speaking again, about him, and he kept his ears perked in case they addressed him. The first one, the hunter (Daisy, he had heard), had moved away, and the other one, the cold one, had come forward, kneeling down beside him. 

“Hi, uh, I’m Martin.” The figure (Martin, apparently) said. “Martin Blackwood. We’re here to help? You don’t have to tell us your name or anything, if you’re not comfortable, but uh...we’re gonna get you out of here.” He felt his whole body jolt in terror. No, he knew what this meant. If _Martin_ wanted to take him away, that meant the cold place, the endless grey with no warmth or light or sensation, he couldn’t take it again. Especially not with that voice, calm as still water and confident as it listed every flaw, every failure, every person lost to his own incompetence. Not to mention what came after. “It’s okay! It’s okay. We’re not here to hurt you, or anything. Are you hurt? Ah, silly question sorry, I… would you be able to sit up, so we can see if you’re-”

That was an order. He didn’t hesitate, rising to his knees, eyes on the floor, arms wrapped tight around himself. He prayed they wouldn’t be ripped away. Elias didn’t always like it when he tried to hide himself. Sometimes he found it funny. Martin swore softly, and immediately reached behind his head to remove the gag, and Jon just tried to keep breathing as he kept perfectly still. 

“Oh _shit_ , I’m so sorry, I didn’t realise, just, ah, give me a second, these knots are kind of tight.” He didn’t really understand what Martin was apologising for, but it was hardly as if he could ask, even if he was stupid enough to try. He coughed painfully as the coarse fabric, and the hard core wrapped within it, was removed, and took his first proper deep breath in a good few hours. Elias hadn’t gagged him whilst he was on his own since the very beginning, and he wasn’t used to having to withstand it for so long. 

Maybe that’s why he did it, Jon thought, a little refresher. He wasn’t sure. Elias hadn’t really been in an explaining mood that day. His ribs still screamed at him from the garbled question he had managed to croak out between Elias’s uncharacteristically messy assault.

“Sorry, I didn’t realise, or I would have…wait what…what’s…?” Martin was unravelling the gag, and Jon hoped it wasn’t too obvious that he was looking. Elias would have had a thing or two to say about minding his own business. His curiosity had been beaten out of him, for the most part, but it was hard sometimes to keep it in check. 

Inside the cloth that had kept his jaw aching for the past few hours, was something chillingly familiar to Jon.

A cassette tape.

He loathed the sight of the thing, the sound of the _click_ of the tape recorder that always seemed to be there, whether it simply appeared in the corner of the room, or whether it was in Elias’ hand, _held up to his face as he bit on his tongue, his lip, his cheek, whatever would keep him silent, whilst Elias just laughed, “You make such amusing noises sometimes, little archivist, it would be a shame if I couldn’t pick them up…”_

There were rapid footsteps overhead, and then on the stairs, and Jon couldn’t help but jerk his head up to see if maybe, _hopefully_ , Elias was finally here to make some sense out of everything. 

“Hey, Tim’s out in the front, Sasha is taking her sweet time, apparently the _Eye_ told her to pick something up on the way out, but we’re ready-” The figure paused, and Jon’s eyes shot back down to the ground, hoping his lapse hadn’t been noticed. “Holy fuck. Jon? Is that you?”

The blood in his veins seemed to freeze.

No one had called him that in a long time. 

He dared to raise his eyes again, just a little, and he properly took in the face that stared at him, eyes blown wide with horror and confusion. He recognised her, he _knew_ he did, was she…

Oh no. Not again.

He screwed his eyes shut and threw himself back to the floor at an alarming speed, crushing his face into the concrete. He hadn’t been visited by a Stranger in a _long_ time. It didn’t matter if he _thought_ he recognised the figure in the doorway, it didn’t matter if it knew his name, it didn’t matter that it looked worried, it wasn’t real. He wasn’t going to forget that this time.

“Oh, hey, it’s okay!” Martin was saying again. “She’s our friend, she’s with us, she’s not going to hurt you!” _Lying, you’re all lying, why else would you be here, just do whatever it is you want to do and then leave_. His chest felt like it would burst with fear. Where was Elias? Where was the tape recorder? What was going on?

“Melanie?” Daisy said, and Jon whined a little, close to clamping his fingers tight against his ears. “You know him? Who is he?”

“He was…a friend of a friend, from a long time ago.” Not-Melanie said. She didn’t… _feel_ like the other strangers had felt. There was a nervous energy beneath her skin, a quiet violence that sent shivers through his spine. The distant sound of bagpipes played through his memory unbidden.

But she had to be. _It_ had to be.

“Right,” the hunter said, a pregnant pause halting her. “I suppose he’s coming with us, then.”

Something cold settled in Jon’s stomach. This wouldn’t be the _first_ time Elias had staged a kidnapping or a rescue, certainly, but it had been a _long_ time since he had last bothered. Jon had still been a little rebellious back then, thinking that he could escape if he was smart enough, strong enough, brave enough. He knew better now. There was no point even trying.

He wondered if he should resist. He had been punished for resisting before, both by his “kidnappers” and then later by Elias when he had been brought back to his cell, for not being cooperative enough. Then again, when he had instead remained lax and compliant, he had been punished anyways, for not fighting hard enough to stay, and his kidnappers had had their fun with him either way.

It was cold, he was hurting, and he was so _confused_.

He wasn’t sure he could fight even if he really wanted to. 

“Where are we going to take him? The hospital?” Martin asked. 

“If it’s all the same to you, I’d much rather _not_ explain to A&E staff where we found him and how. He’s not dying, Martin, trust me to know. We’ll figure it out, for now let’s just get him in the van.” With that, she turned and left, but Melanie hung behind. Jon couldn’t look at her, not without feeling sick, and there simply wasn’t enough inside him to bring back up. Besides, Elias would be furious to find he had made a mess. 

“Christ, okay, um…” Martin was fidgeting nervously. Jon raised his head a little at the sound of fabric rustling together, and saw Martin take off his large, knitted jumper.

_Right, straight to it then_.

He shut his eyes and held his breath, waiting for an order, or to simply be man-handled into whatever position Martin wanted. Everyone had their own approach. 

“Uh, hey, Jon, was it?” He flinched. Hearing his name from Not-Melanie was one thing, but from this perfect stranger, after so long being a litany of other colourful monikers that made bile rise to his throat, was like a dream. “It’s pretty cold in here, and it’s cold outside too. I mean, we’ll be in the van, soon enough, but we’ve still got to get you there. And I thought also you might want, um, something to cover you? Sorry, I’m being…look, my jumper will be way too big for you, and I don’t really have anything else to hand, but would you want to wear it for now?”

His eyes snapped open. That certainly wasn’t what he’d been expecting. He raised his head up enough to look at the offered jumper. It was a thick knit, and he could see where the cuffs of the sleeves were a little worn and frayed from years of fiddling. Martin was down to just a dress shirt, shivering a little in the chill of the cell. He looked as though he was expecting an answer. Jon’s tongue darted out to his dry cracked lips, trying to summon the courage to speak, tensing in case he was wrong and Martin _wasn’t_ expecting an answer, and didn’t want to hear him speak.

“Is…it allowed?” After all, Martin had asked if he _wanted_ the jumper, but had not said that he could. He wasn’t falling for that one. He saw Martin exchange a look with Not-Melanie, though he couldn’t see his expression very well, not wanting to risk catching his eye. Martin was being strangely gentle, and he didn’t want to try his luck.

“Y-yeah, of course.” He sounded sad in a way that confused him. “I mean, I wouldn’t offer if it wasn’t. Would you like a hand?”

_Stop asking me things, just do it_ . _You’re going to do it anyways._

He shifted back upright on his knees, tilting his head so that he didn’t have to see Not-Melanie in his periphery, and reached shakily for the offered jumper. His hands brushed against Martins, and anxiety rolled in his belly, but _still_ Martin didn’t seem to react. He raised his arms up to try and pull it over his head, but he gasped in pain as the demolition zone of his ribcage was jarred.

“Here, let me help.” Martin said softly. He took the hem of the jumper and pulled it gently down over Jon’s head. The feel of the knit wool on his body was almost alien, after so long naked. It wasn’t perfect, but it was _warm_ . Martin helped him loop his arms through the sleeves, and he tried not to cry out as his injuries were jarred, until the jumper hung off of him like a smock. The sleeves went far over his hands, and he brought one up to his face. It smelled of loose leaf tea and fabric softener. The texture against his face was _heavenly_. He got so lost in the luxury he almost forgot where he was.

“Th-thank you,” he stammered out, returning to his proper pose, face to the floor, knees tucked underneath him, “th-thank you, Sir.”

“O-oh, uh, Martin is fine, really. Are you alright to walk?” 

Jon thought about it for a moment. He hadn’t walked in a long time, people seemed to prefer him on his knees, and the few times he had to move around his cell without being simply _dragged_ , he was instructed to crawl. That, with the stabbing pain in his chest, made him hesitate. But an order was an order, no matter how it was worded. He nodded, and then shifted, getting his feet underneath him and pushing himself off of the floor with his hands, but the minute his legs took his weight they trembled and collapsed in on themselves. Jon was vaguely reminded of Bambi taking his first steps. 

Before he could collapse, Martin caught him under his arms, lowering him gently to the floor. Jon gasped, stiff in his arms. Martin’s hands were not cold like he thought they’d be, not calloused and dry, marred by coarse ropes and sea air. They were warm, soft and chubby. He wondered if Martin would be angry that he lied about being alright to walk. He had abstained from punishing him so far, perhaps he was waiting until they got to...wherever they were taking him, but the thought of having to wait without _knowing_ was making his breath catch in his throat. Those hands were big, strong. Capable of doing a lot of damage. Tears sprung to his eyes in familiar terror.

“S-sorry, I’m sorry, I can’t w-walk, I didn’t mean to l-lie…” He didn’t know what Martin liked, but he settled for going to his knees and bowing his head down. “I’m sorry Sir, sorry, please…”

He heard footsteps on the stairs, Not-Melanie must have left, but Martin stayed, going down to his knees, and he mentally berated himself.

_Stupid, stupid, he doesn’t want to hear you apologise, he even told you not to call him Sir, if he wasn’t going to punish you before he_ definitely _is now._

He hugged the jumper tight to him. Martin was probably going to take it back now, but it had been so nice to be warm. 

“Jon…” Martin's voice was feeble and hushed. Those big, warm hands rested gently on his wool covered arms, not squeezing or shaking him, but just resting there. “I…I don’t know why you’re here, and I can’t possibly imagine what you’ve been through, but we won’t hurt you, none of us will. We just want to get you out of here, okay?” 

Jon didn’t know what to say to that. He just knew that it had to be a lie.

“I can’t walk.” He whispered, clutching the jumper tight in his hands.

“Then I’ll carry you, if that’s okay?”

It wasn’t really a question.

Martin scooped him up, one hand behind his back and one under his knees, lifting him with a surprising lack of effort. Jon gasped clutching onto Martin’s dress shirt without thinking, suddenly afraid to fall. The sensation of falling was something he had become...horribly familiar with, and whilst the length from Martin’s arms to the floor wasn’t such a dizzying height as some others, it made his heart hammer in his chest.

“Please don’t drop me.” He whimpered, cringing as he did it, expecting Martin to laugh in his face, or to do just that. Instead, those big, soft arms tightened around him.

“I won’t, I swear.” He said solemnly.

Martin began to move, slowly and carefully, and Jon clung on as tight as he could. The jumper was cozy against his skin, and it surprised him to find that Martin was as well. His body was soft and warm, and when Jon lay his head against Martin’s chest, it sank into his flesh like the best pillow on earth. 

He was so tired.

Here, in Martin’s arms, rocked by the steady rhythm of footsteps and wrapped in a jumper that smelled like someone’s home, Jon’s body gave out, and he fell into an uneasy rest.

* * *

Martin took the stairs as slowly as possible. He had no great desire to trip and fall, not only for the pain of it, but for the figure in his arms.

The emaciated, trembling figure that was _beginning to fall asleep_.

He wasn’t sure whether he should try to keep him awake or not. That was something they did in movies, he was pretty sure. Try to keep injured people awake, so that they wouldn’t slip into a coma or something.

But Daisy had said he wasn’t at deaths door, and in a horrible turn of events, Martin was forced to trust her. Besides, the poor thing looked like he could do with a nap. A long, long nap.

At the top of the steps, he saw that the front door was wide open, and Daisy and Melanie were waiting for him. He had seen Melanie leave, and now he saw where her eyes were red-rimmed and swollen, and she wiped her nose against her sleeve. Daisy looked at the figure in Martin’s arms, now clad in his jumper, and something softened in her gaze.

“C’mon, we’ll take him back to Tim’s for now, until we figure out who to contact.” She said softly. “Melanie, do you know if there’s anyone we can contact?”

“I don’t know, we…we weren’t really close.” She sniffed. “He dated Georgie for a bit, in Uni, we all just moved in the same circles.”

“Wait, _Georgie_ ?” Martin hissed, careful not to wake Jon. “ _Your_ Georgie?”

“ _Yes_ , my Georgie, who else?” She snapped. “I...I guess I have to tell her, right? Ask if she knows anyone?”

They all sat with that for a bit, until a horn blared outside, from a seemingly impatient Tim. Jon stirred in his arms, but thankfully didn’t wake. 

“Come on,” Martin murmured. “Let’s not keep him waiting.”

They stepped out to see Tim leaning against the van next to Basira, hand poised over the horn through the window. They had acquired the van sometime after the Jane Prentiss incident, when the archive team had started to investigate on a wider level and found it was more economic than joint train fare. Tim had always talked about getting it painted to look like the mystery machine, but they hadn’t been able to do it before the humour of having a van was lost. Now it was just a van, the same dirty white colour as every other Ford Transit. Probably for the best.

“Right, if we’re all done being Sherlock Holmes, then-” Tim’s face softened a little at the sight of Martin, and more specifically his cargo. “Oh.”

“Start the car,” Daisy said, climbing into the back of the van, “We’ll go back to yours and figure out what to do next from there.”

“Not until I know the building’s coming down behind me. Who is that?” He asked, voice far more subdued than Martin had heard it since before The Unknowing.

“His name is Jonathan Sims.”

Martin turned his head. Sasha stood in the doorway of the old house, clutching a cardboard box filled to the brim with cassette tapes, the grizzly jar tucked under one arm. She looked grave, her eyes falling on Jon with unease. She walked towards the van, crossing round to get to the passenger seat.

“Tim, do whatever you need to do, there’s nothing else we need from the house. Don’t forget the basement.” Tim just nodded vacantly, heading inside, the lighter gripped tight in his fist.

“How did you know?” Melanie hissed.

“Do you really need to ask that question?” Sasha huffed in what might have been a laugh about five years ago. “I didn’t want to know, not like... _that_ , but The Eye decided it was important enough to make the decision for me.” She turned to look at them.

“You remember that statement about the creepy spider book? The eight year old who found the Leitner? He gave it in 2014, to Gertrude Robinson.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You want to…run away?” Basira repeated back like a waitress confirming an order.
> 
> “We’re not children, Basira, it’s not running away. Just…using up some holiday time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!
> 
> Thank you so much for all the LOVE on the last chapter, I'm honestly overwhelmed! I'm so excited you'll all be on this journey with me.
> 
> ALSO I thought it might do good to say - this is absolutely a recovery fic, but the threat isn't 100% gone. There are plans happening, and the danger hasn't quite died down. But things WILL be okay! And it never gets worse for Jon than what's already happened to him, this I promise.
> 
> And a special thanks to THISisGREAT for all support and help with the chapters!
> 
> Warning for this chapter:
> 
> \- References to canon-typical police brutality  
> \- Brief references to past rape and torture  
> \- Fire + Arson
> 
> This is a pretty light chapter, we're just giving the mystery gang a little rest before the real work begins! 
> 
> Enjoy pals, see you in the new year.

The drive to Tim’s was uncharacteristically quiet.

Tim loved blasting music in the van. Queen, Bon Jovi, Bowie, Oasis, loud enough that Martin was worried they wouldn’t hear oncoming traffic. On the occasion that Sasha was driving, she would sometimes stick on a podcast or a talk radio station.

Daisy’s radio choices had left her temporarily banned from getting behind the wheel.

But today they drove in silence, all but for the occasional snorts from the sleeping figure in Martin’s lap. 

Tim glanced at him occasionally through the mirror, his stomach turning whenever he did. He looked so small, bundled up in Martin’s old jumper, the shins and feet that poked out of the thick wool looking as though Tim could snap them if he wasn’t too careful. His face was thin too, his warm brown skin somewhat dull and grey, the hair that covered it wiry and matted. A lock of it blew back and forth with the man’s steady, slow breathing.

He had been there, at Elias’ house, for god knows how long. Since 2014 possibly. _Four years_ , trapped with that psychopath, and they hadn’t known. Well…

He looked at Sasha, who was gazing out of the window, cardboard box full of tapes clutched to her chest. He didn’t fully understand the extent of Sasha’s powers, didn’t know how she Knew or _what_ she Knew. But she had known his name…

He still liked Sasha. A part of him still _loved_ her. But a terribly hypocritical part of him resented her, blaming her for this whole mess. He knew it was a choice at the end of the day, to accept your God. Lord knows he had been more than willing to accept The Desolation’s gifts at the House of Wax; it was no secret the joy he had taken in melting every one of those bastards to nothing, right before a bomb had gone off in his hands...and left him alive. 

Sasha had gotten out in time, and he couldn’t quite explain why he hated her for that.

Maybe, at the end of the day, Tim just really _really_ fucking hated The Eye.

“Did you know?” He said softly, before he was able to stop himself. The van itself seemed to stand to attention as the silence was broken. Jon continued to sleep soundly on Martin’s lap at least.

“Know what?” Sasha whispered, looking away from the window.

“You know what. About...him. Jon. Did you know that Elias was keeping him there?”

“Tim, of course I didn’t know. Do you really think I wouldn’t have said anything if I’d known-”

“I don’t know, Sasha! No, I don’t think you would have, not really, but…you’re meant to Know things. You’re meant to be able to dig people's secrets up, look through people’s heads-”

“What, like Gertrude used to? Like _Jonah_ did?” She hissed. Tim saw Melanie and Martin give each other a subtle look.

“I don’t know! Yes, maybe! Maybe this whole thing could have been solved from the beginning if-”

“I’m not about to make the habit of looking through people’s heads, Tim! I didn’t know, I only knew his name because The Eye dropped it into my head, I didn’t go looking”

“And it couldn’t have conveniently dropped in that he was even there in the first place?”

“Have you considered that maybe it didn’t want us to know?” She took a deep breath, rubbing at her eyes. Tim knew that look, and wondered when the last time Sasha had actually _slept_ when she claimed she was doing so. “We don’t know why he was there. But these tapes...I Know they’ll be useful. Including the one you found on him,” She said to Martin. “The important thing is that Jonah’s, or uh, Elias’s, body is dead, and we have his eyes. We can rest, just for a bit. I think we need it.”

Tim couldn’t really argue with that.

He nodded, his hands tightening on the steering wheel. He could feel the leather warm beneath his hands and he prayed it wouldn’t burn again. It had taken weeks last time to get the smell out of the car.

* * *

Georgie picked up on the first ring, and Melanie knew she had been waiting by the phone. 

Melanie would always hate herself just a little for dragging Georgie into the world she had been sucked into, and even more so when she had discovered Georgie had already been marked, way back at Oxford. They hadn’t met until after what Georgie called her ‘Gap Year’, and she had started dating Jon. Secretly…it felt so awful to think it now, but she had always thought that Jon was a bit of a prick. He was perfectly fine to Georgie, but he always seemed to be oblivious to those around him, stubborn and blunt, able to ramble on for ages about topics no one had expressed any interest for. 

Melonie had always assumed it was due to ego, or that particularly male mindset that your voice is the most important in the room. When she had discovered from Georgie that he was on the spectrum, after he had had to leave a particularly loud gig early, it had made a little more sense. Still, she and him had never meshed well, and she usually hung out with Georgie when he was in class, or was busy doing…whatever it was he did. Jon didn’t really seem like someone who did things for _fun_ , though there had been a rumour that he was in a band. 

Seeing Jonathan Sims, the man who had once infodumped for a solid half hour about _emulsifiers_ at a birthday party, beg and plead _Martin_ of all people for forgiveness for _not being able to walk_...it had been a lot. 

And now someone else had to know.

“Melanie.” Georgie said immediately. “You’re okay? Everyone alive?”

“Yeah, shockingly. Well, _he’s_ not. We…we did it, Georgie. He’s dead, we have the eyes. It’s over.” There was a sigh of relief over the phone.

“Then why don’t you sound happy?”

She sighed. Her girlfriend was way too clever for her own good.

“There’s more.”

“Yeah, I thought so. You don’t want to tell me.”

“It’s...not an easy thing to have to tell. Should I wait until I get home? It might be easier then.” She thought of cuddling up close on the sofa, mugs of hot chocolate (with considerable amounts of brandy), something boring on the telly and The Admiral curled up between them. Somewhere safe, where she wouldn’t have to think about Jonathan Sims or his scar-ridden body ever again. 

She would never have to examine how afraid he was of her.

“No, best to tell me now. I’ll only worry about it otherwise.”

“Right,” she took a deep breath, “at Jonah’s house, Daisy...could sense that something else was there, something other than Jonah. Underneath the floorboards. So we looked, and we found the entrance to a basement. I busted the lock, and we found…” She took a deep breath, remembering the stench of the room, the utter darkness penetrated only by the torch on Martin’s phone, the overwhelming fear and despair that fogged the place.

“What was it?” Georgie asked, and Melanie could hear a note of excitement in her voice, the conspiratorial kind usually reserved for the podcast. “A monster? Haunted furniture? Walt Disney’s severed head?”

“No, nothing like that. We...found Jon.”

There was silence down the phone. Distantly, Melanie heard The Admiral pottering about somewhere in the background of the call, and she wished she could be doing this back home, with a fat, purring ball of fur on her lap. She had chosen to take the call outside the front door to the house, leaning against the short brick wall that sectioned off the house and wishing for a cigarette that she shouldn’t have. It was cold in the mid-november chill, and at five in the afternoon it was already on its way to dusk. 

“...Jon. Jonathan Sims?”

“Yeah.”

“What was he doing there?” She winced.

“Not much. Georgie, it seemed like he...he’d been there for a good while, we don’t know how long yet. He was in the basement…and he was hurt-” she cut herself off, not yet having the strength to go into detail about the state of him, the way he had reacted. “Do you know if he has any family we can contact?”

“Uh...his-his parents are dead, died when he was really young. He was raised by his grandmother, but I have no idea how you’d get in touch, or if she’s even alive...”

“It’s okay. Do you know when the last time you spoke to him was? The last time you heard from him at all?”

“I didn’t even know he was missing.” Her voice sounded distant and hollow down the phone, like she was speaking from the bottom of a pit. “You know we didn’t part on the best of terms, and he didn’t use social media or anything so…Melanie what happened? Is he okay?”

“No.” She said. “No, he’s not at all.”

“Right. I’m coming.”

“Georgie, wait-”

“I’m coming, and I’m bringing The Admiral. Jon always had a soft spot for cats.”

“No, no wait.” There was silence over the phone. “I...I know you want to help, and I love you for that, you know I do, but...he didn’t react very well to seeing me, and I don’t know why. Like, I know we didn’t exactly get along that well at Uni, but he was never _afraid_ of me.”

“So what, you think he’ll be afraid of me too?”

“I don’t know! All I’m getting at is…he’s not himself.He’s been abused, badly, he...” She couldn’t say it, couldn’t describe the naked state he had been in, the bruises and _burns_ on his hips, and the story they told. “He’s been through Hell,” she settled on, “and we don’t know exactly what that Hell looks like, but if _Jonah_ was involved, it’s probably bad. Maybe it’s best not to overwhelm him with familiar faces?”

“So what, we just...leave him with strangers instead? How is that better, Melanie?” Melanie didn’t have an answer. “Please, I…I want to see him. And I want to see you too.” She blushed.

“Yeah, yeah that would be…good.” She sniffed. “I’m really tired, Georgie.”

“I know. You’re amazing, Mel. You’ve worked so hard and pushed yourself so far, _please_ let me help in whatever way I can.” Melanie held her breath. She _really_ didn’t want to cry again.

“Do you want me to send Tim round to get you?”

“Nah, The Admiral likes taking the bus.”

“Is he actually _allowed_ on the bus?”

“He is if they don’t know he’s there.” Melanie grinned.

“I love you. See you soon.”

“I love you too.”

Georgie hung up first. Melanie held her phone to her chest, a guilty thrum of pleasure running through her at the thought of being able to see her girlfriend tonight, even if it meant dragging her into just about the least enviable situation in the world. Not to mention The Admiral.

She looked back to the house. An ordinary old townhouse with a short brick staircase and a “front garden” that consisted of two wheelie bins and a sad potted orange tree that hadn’t seen a watering can for months. She wondered what Tim’s neighbors thought of this place, and the man that lived inside it. Did they ever smell burning? Ever catch a sentence or two through the open window about a world far more ominous than the one they were used to? Were they oblivious, politely British to the end? Would any of Tim’s neighbors ever become statement givers?

Had Jonah’s neighbors ever noticed? Had they ever heard screaming from the house and come to investigate? Had they come over one day with a mislabeled passage and noticed something, _anything_ wrong when Jonah came to open the door?

She hung her head down until she was bent double and took a long, deep breath.

She hated this. She hated everything about this. She hated Jonah Magnus, she hated his fucking institute, and she hated Sasha James for taking her damned statement in the first place. 

After she was sure she had her breathing back under control, she decided to suck up her courage and head back inside to see if Tim carried tobacco. 

At least he’d have something for her to light off of.

* * *

Daisy hadn’t tried lemon drizzle cake before.

When Basira had first found out about her tendency to “stress bake”, holed up in Tim’s house after her stint underground, trying her best to remember how to walk and breathe again, she had handed her a charity-shop recipe book with some mumbled warning about not getting salmonella. Though she had downright refused any of the fruit of Daisy’s efforts.

It was soothing, having a recipe to follow whilst she listened to the radio. It was nice to have a reward at the end that didn’t have to be chased down.

Her usual go-to was brownies. It was easy enough, and you could throw just about any sweets you wanted into them. Her hands moved for her when she made them, the measurements ingrained so thoroughly into her brain that she could work on autopilot whilst her mind wandered.

She really, _really_ didn’t want her mind to wander today. 

She was currently in the process of grating the zest of a lemon into her mixing bowl, doing her best not to nick any of her fingers in the process. There was no new episode of The Archers to catch up on, so she had LBC on. At least it gave her a more constructive place to aim her anger.

She felt Basira enter the kitchen before she saw her, craning her neck round to see her partner leaning against the doorframe.

“You don’t like lemon,” she said dryly. Daisy shrugged.

“Wasn’t really planning on eating it,” she admitted. “Besides, Martin likes citrus. I think. He gave me an earl gray once, that’s citrus.”

“I can’t argue with that,” Basira sighed. She moved over to stand next to her at the counter. “Come on, you’re not that subtle. What’s on your mind?”

“What do _you_ think? You saw the state of him, Basira.”

“Yeah, I did. And it was awful, and sickening, but we’ve seen it before, Daisy. Seen _grimmer_ , maybe. Why this one?” She pressed on.

Daisy didn’t answer for a little while, and a particularly angry man continued to rattle on about immigration on LBC. Or maybe trade deals. Either way, it was nothing good. It wasn’t working, not with Basira’s intrusion. She could see the room again, that rank, tiny room in the dark, and the figure inside of it, waiting for pain that he had no doubt learned to expect. That trembling, thin figure. So helpless, and _cornered_.

Her fist squeezed suddenly round the lemon in her hand, puncturing the grated skin and flinging lemon juice into the bowl, onto the counter, and indeed onto Daisy. She looked at Basira, who had an eyebrow raised.

“It’s probably fine,” she shrugged, her mouth quirking in the parody of a smile, “I’m sure the lemon juice just makes it even more…lemony.”

“Daisy,” Basira growled, a warning in her tone.

“Sorry! Sorry. It’s just…not easy.”  
  
“What isn’t?” 

“I…there was a part of me that…that liked it. How scared he was, I mean.”

She decided to let Basira sit with that for a second whilst she dug through her cake batter, picking out the few lemon seeds that had fallen in, turning off the radio with her free hand. LBC had failed to do its job enough for today. 

“That…it’s not your fault, Daisy. You can’t control it, and you’re working so hard not to give into those urges.” Daisy scoffed, and Basira tilted her head in confusion.

“If it was Sasha, you would have ripped her a new one. Be honest, Basira.” 

“That’s different!”

“Is it?” Daisy dried her hands off on one of Tim’s recipe tea towels and turned to face her. “We all have some _pretty_ weird urges in this group, Basira. You included. You think Tim wasn’t itching to burn that building the second Magnus was dead? You think he wasn’t impatient to get going with it, no matter who was still in the building? Or Melanie, even after we dug that bullet out of her, you know she still carries a knife wherever she goes? But it’s only _Sasha_ you go after for having _urges_.” Basira took a deep breath.

“You’ve changed the subject. We’re not talking about Sasha here.”

“No, we’re not.” She conceded. “Because _Sasha_ doesn’t get her rocks off cornering down terrified, defenseless bastards.” 

“Well, in a sense she _does_.”

“It’s not the same. Sasha might be The Archivist, but she’s never actually...you know what I mean.” Daisy pulled out the loaf tin Basira had found in a one pound bin at Barnardos a few weeks ago and started to grease it. “Do you ever wonder? If we became cops because we were already Hunters, or if we became Hunters automatically when we became cops? I mean, I know _my_ answer, but like, generally.” She wiggled her shoulder around a little, feeling the familiar starburst against her shoulder rub along the thick cotton of her charity shop tee.

“Not _all_ cops are Hunters.”

“Debatable. Both are choices, Basira. Besides, you didn’t answer my question.”

She could see Basira mulling it over, scratching at her scalp through her hijab. Daisy knew she hadn’t expected that particular question from _her_ of all people. Basira had always been the one keeping Daisy in line, back in their days as sectioned officers. Always the one having to pull her off the scent when she was going too far, always filling in the paperwork that Daisy thought was pointless to do, always covering from her when she knew perfectly well that daisy was in the forest with another ‘monster’, not realising that the two of them just about qualified as monsters too. 

Still, after everything, it was Basira who defended the institution that had made them hungry for the chase. 

Daisy saw the way Sasha cast a wary eye to any police cars that ever passed their way on the street, her body becoming tense and alert at the sound of sirens, the way her eyes turned to the floor when uniforms passed them by on the pavement. 

It’s hard to see something you know you’re inarguably to blame for.

“I don’t know,” she said at last. “I guess I…don’t really consider myself a Hunter, you know? I always thought I was more of a...well, I don’t know. An investigator?” As much as she hated the way Elias used to call her ‘ _detective’,_ after The Unknowing when he had invited his sea captain mate to help around the archives, she couldn’t deny that it held some fact. She had always done more of the _mental_ chasing, figuring out routines, retracing steps, finding alibis. It was Daisy who did all the running around.

“Same thing, Basira. Look, all I’m saying is…I saw that poor bastard, hurt and scared, and I _liked_ it. Whether I wanted to or not.” She sighed. “And now he’s going to be staying here, at least until we find some family or anything from Georgie.”

“Melanie’s on the phone to her now. Daisy, what are you suggesting?”

“I don’t know…maybe we get out of her for a bit. Give the guy some space. The last thing he needs is two ex cops with a thing for vulnerability trying to control themselves around him. Besides, maybe we’ve earned a break.” She tossed the loaf tin into the oven, setting a timer on her phone. She turned to look at Basira, making the effort to meet her eye for once in a blue moon. “I’m not saying we just run away from it all, we’re too deep for all that. But…maybe a break. Maybe that’s okay?”

Basira blinked. Daisy may as well have suggested they build a rocketship together and give Mars a try. The weight of her words hung above them in the kitchen, tentative and fragile as a loose chandelier. Daisy had a sudden memory of watching Only Fools And Horses with her father, watching behind her fingers as Del Boy and Rodney attempted to bring down the chandelier safely, knowing in her heart that it would smash no matter what. She felt that same tension now, waiting for the crash and only hoping she wouldn’t get cut.

“You want to…run away?” Basira repeated back like a waitress confirming an order.

“We’re not children, Basira, it’s not _running away_. Just…using up some holiday time.”

“Why are you bringing this up now?”

“Because! How long have we been doing this? You were sectioned, what, seven years ago? I’ve been doing this for _sixteen years_. And it’s killing us.” She ran a hand through her hair, cringing at the unwashed texture and hoping there wasn’t any baking debris left on her hands. “I have…a safehouse, up in Scotland, I was keeping it in case everything went tits up. I was thinking maybe…we could go off together.”

Basira walked forward cautiously, the way Daisy used to when she was sure her mark didn’t have the energy to run anymore. Her hands, long and dextrous, came up to take Daisy’s, holding them loosely between them.

“Daisy, we can’t do that, and you know why.”

“Do I?”

“You know as well as I do that it’s...not over. The Archives are still there, The Lukas’ and the Fairchild’s are still out there, the Church of the Lightless Flame is still out there. And now _Jon_ is here. And I _know_ you would never forgive yourself for ducking out early.”

Daisy closed her eyes, breathing out slowly, her head falling instinctively and slotting itself into the crook between Basira’s neck and shoulder, cushioned by the silk of her hijab.

“I hate when you’re right.” Basira huffed, and wrapped her arms loosely around her partner.

“I know, Daisy.”

“What do we do about Jon then?.”

“Let’s just…keep our distance. Play it by ear.” She smirked. “I always thought exposure therapy was kind of bullshit, but who knows. It might be good for both of you.”

* * *

Peter Lukas would never, _never_ admit to anyone that fire unsettled him.

He was a sea captain, for someone’s sake. If nothing and no one else, he trusted structure, and order. Fire had none of that. The flames that consumed Elias Bouchard’s home, even as the fire team worked to contain them, were fighting to spread to the neighbouring houses, crimson flames dancing and fighting to grow. Fire’s were few and far between at sea, and there was always water to go around.

Besides, those Lightless Flame bastards kind of freaked him out.

“Excuse me, sir!”

A man in uniform was approaching him, face blackened with soot as he removed his oxygen mask. As much as fire unsettled him, interacting with strangers did even more so. He took a deep breath and approached the fireman, eyebrows raised in question.

“Yes?” He murmured, turning to face him and cringing at the heat from the house that shone full force at his face.

“We looked just like you asked, sir. You said there would be two people inside, yes?”

“Yes, two men.”

“Right. Well, we found one of them, sir.” He swallowed, and did that look that uniforms always did before becoming the bearer of bad news. “I’m afraid there was nothing we could do, sir. One of the men you mentioned was found in the living room, dead. His body was too...well, that is to say we weren’t able to identify him. He must have fallen asleep, because the flames got to him first. I’m deeply sorry.”

Peter gave himself a moment to take that in. Elias’ body was out, then. They could find another one, if the eyes were salvageable, but if the body was really so difficult to recognise…

“What about the other one?” He pressed on, ignoring the strange _ache_ in his chest. Peter didn’t do mourning, and didn’t care for kinship. What he was feeling was a loss of familiarity and nothing more. He’d get just as much a pang from a damaged lifeboat, or a blown engine.

“The other one?”

“The other body, I said there were two!” He growled.

“Well, we looked for it, and we checked the basement, like you asked! But…there isn’t another body in there. It seemed like only the first gentleman was home.”

Peter froze.

He focussed his gaze again on the blazing inferno. He hadn’t doubted that this was sabotage, of course not. Coincidences like that didn’t happen to him. But if the little archivist wasn’t a burning pile of ash in the basement, that meant he was gone. That someone had him. 

He clenched his fist so hard his knuckles cracked.

“Have you tried to contact him?” The fireman supplied unhelpfully. “It’s possible he was out, hasn’t heard about the fire yet. You’d be surprised how often that kind of thing happens, someone stops on their way home to pick up a pint of milk and they miss something by inches.”

“He doesn’t have a phone. Thank you for your help.” He said quietly, pushing past the officer and walking down the street, making sure he was far out of sight before he vanished. 

The lonely was quiet, and cold. No roaring of flames, no wailing of sirens, no idiots in uniform wanting to chat his ear off or concerned neighbors wanting to offer him tea. Just the ocean, stretching out before him, fading off into the fog before the horizon would dare to divide the sea from the sky.

No Jonah. No Archivist.

No Eye.

He shouldn’t have left the archives, shouldn’t have left Jonah to take care of Sasha and her new rebellious streak on his own.

Shouldn’t have let Martin Blackwood go free, not when Peter could still feel a hole in The Lonely, where he had torn his way out of it. 

They were responsible, they had to be. 

Which meant the archives were next.

He considered letting them get on with it. Jonah’s world…it had been a fun idea. A domain full of sorrow, isolation, stronger than anything Peter had managed to conjure together in the world as they knew it now. A ship that needed no crew, a wide ocean with no ports or islands. Just him, the sea and the sky.

But he had the sea. He had the sky. And he had his crew, paranoid and so _deliciously_ lonely. He was content.

But the archivist.

He could lead ten crews and never have anything quite as exquisite as the young man beneath Jonah’s house, a mini generator of terror. 

The sobs he tried to keep to himself, the wide eyed look of confusion and fear every time they decided to try something new, that beautiful moment where he gave up and his body went lax, letting them do whatever they wanted.

The look of utter trust and belief when Peter took him through the lonely, and told him things that deep down he already knew. 

_There was no one for him but us_.

The Archives could burn to the ground for all he cared.

But Jon belonged with him, and he had very little patience for thieves. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I like to come by here every now and then anyways, check in on them. So when I realised you were here too, well, I had to pop in. Say ‘hello’. That’s what friends do, isn’t it?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys!
> 
> Thank you again for such an overwhelming amount of support on my last chapter! Sorry this one is up a little later than I would have liked, and not quite at the standard I would have liked it to be, I'm just a little swamped at the moment with other writing work! But thank you all for this patience. I hope you like the chapter!
> 
> Chapter warnings:  
> -Acephobia  
> -Oral Rape (past)  
> -Canon-typical vast shit  
> -Conditioned mindset  
> -Expectation of rape  
> -Breif reference to possible transphobia in the past that doesn't happen  
> -References to Martin's mother (and all the unhealthy parental stuff that brings)  
> -Food and references to malnutrition and starvation
> 
> Thank you for being patient!

_There was so much air, nothing_ but _air, but Jon couldn’t breathe._

_The wind whipped against his bare skin as he plummeted, hard and sharp, so cold it felt hot and then back to being icy again. He didn’t know which way was up anymore, just knew that he had to be falling downwards, but even that wasn’t clear anymore. There seemed to be no end to the fall, no solid surface that would smash his body into pieces upon impact. He had simply been swallowed by the sky. But his stomach didn’t know that, as it twisted painfully inside him. Over and over again, his body tensed, ready for a spine shattering impact that didn’t come. Rinse and repeat._

_He had long since stopped crying out, and no longer had the energy to scream, all he could do was shut his eyes against the icy sharp wind and clamp his hands over his ears to try and reduce the endless roaring of unattainable air, and to try to stop his body from spinning uncontrollably._

_He had entertained the possibility of an ocean beneath him before, even though he knew that falling into water at this height would be no different from falling onto solid concrete. It was better than the endless limbo of anticipation that the infinite fall gave him._

_All of a sudden, it stopped, the abrupt silence that followed almost deafening, as solid stone rose gently to greet him, and the windchill was abruptly replaced with the static cold of the basement. He gasped, swallowing down deep gulps of stale, filtered air, tears running down his face as at last he opened his eyes again. He was lying exactly where he’d been before, and he clutched at the solid ground with trembling fingers, trying to steady his head and his stomach as they reeled violently. He looked around the room, and saw a pair of feet approaching him, and another by the staircase._

_His eyes gazed up, not too high, and he remembered in a painful flash what was happening._

_He rose to his knees, ignoring the way his vision blurred and his head pulsed and ached as his body fought to supply oxygen to his brain, and shuffled forward ever so slightly to the figure approaching him, leaning his head against one thigh, clasping his hands together on his lap._

_“I’m sorry…I’m s-sorry…” he gasped out. Simon Fairchild hummed contemplatively._

_“Sorry what?” He asked._

_“Sir! Sorry sir…I’m sorry sir…” He corrected, cringing at such a stupid mistake._

_“Better. You really are sorry, aren’t you, little one?” Jon cringed a little._

_“Yes, sir.”_

_“And you won’t try to fight me this time, will you?” Jon swallowed._

_“N-no, sir.”_

_“Good boy. Go ahead, I want your best.”_

_He nodded hurriedly, and raised a trembling hand cautiously to Simon’s flies. He hated this, and he especially hated doing it with Simon. He was far more...vocal, than Elias was, far more inclined to share the details of what Jon was doing. He shivered, pulling Simon out of his underwear. Simon took over from there, one hand fisted into Jon’s hair, the other cradling the back of his neck as he thrust down Jon’s throat._

_He took his time. Jon just tried to gag as little as possible._

_“You’re good at this, you know.” Simon panted, “I couldn’t believe Elias when he said you hadn’t done this before he found you. What a terrible waste, don’t you think?” It took Jon a moment to realise he wasn’t the one being addressed. Elias hummed._

_“He hadn’t done_ anything _. A dreadful shame, really. He’d gotten it into his head that he wouldn’t like it, and so he never tried it. Not even with the little girlfriend he had in university. We talked about that, didn’t we, little archivist? He really shouldn’t be limited in his…experiences.” Jon’s cheeks flushed with shame and humiliation, and he fought to relax his jaw, to stay still as his mouth was abused._

_Finally, blessedly, Simon finished, pulling out as Jon fought not to gag. It was over, they could leave him alone now, just for a bit. The loneliness carried its own problems, under the ground surrounded by darkness, but at least where no hands could reach him. Mostly._

_“Thank you, archivist. That wasn’t so hard, was it?” He reached out to run his hand through Jon’s hair once more. It paused. “Although...I wonder. I asked for your best._ Was _it your best?”_

_A shiver of apprehension ran down his spine. He turned to Elias helplessly, unsure what to do. He had done what they wanted, he had done everything he could do, but he was so tired and cold and_ hurt.

_Elias looked over at him, and Jon felt the ever present eye in his mind open and search for the truth._

_Elias grinned._

_“No, it wasn’t.”_

_Jon lurched, his eyes darting between the two men, stomach rolling. He shook his head helplessly._

_“Ah,” Simon sighed, “how disappointing. Well, I really did want the best you could do. And I’m going to need some time to rest.” He lay a hand on Jon’s shoulder. “Hopefully you’ll be able to give your best once you get back.”_

_“No,” Jon rasped, “N-no, sir I’m sorry, please I’ll do better,_ ple- _”  
  
_

_The rest of his sentence was lost screaming into the wind as he began to fall, swallowed up by the sky once more. No up, no down, just the endless vast and him. No mercy and no end in sight. Falling, falling, falling-_

Jon hit the floor with a cry of pain as his battered body was jarred. His eyes flew open, breath coming too quick and too loud. Simon was gone, and Elias was gone. Lamplight came streaming through a window that shouldn’t have been there, and there was carpet under his knees.

He took a moment to breathe, curling up tight on the floor whilst he got his bearings, reflecting on how much nicer the carpet felt than concrete. He was still wearing that man's, _Martin’s_ , jumper, and he hugged it tight. It still hadn’t lost it’s scent, and he breathed in deep. He had never liked tea that much, but the smell of it had a homeliness that Jon had never properly experienced. He rubbed the sleeves against his face again, shutting his eyes and just taking in the feeling of the texture on his face, and the little bursts of warmth and stimulation.

Once he found the courage to take his hands away from his face, he looked around the room. The height he had fallen from turned out to be the foot and a half distance from an unmade double bed to the floor, where presumably Jon must have been lying, which made no sense. He wasn’t allowed in beds, unless he was being used. Maybe Elias had forgotten to tell them that rule, though he hadn’t before.

  
Or maybe they still expected Jon to be in it for when they came back, to save time.

He shivered, and looked elsewhere. The room was sparsely decorated, but it was still _decorated_ . There was a bedside table which sported a modest IKEA lamp and a glass of water, which Jon realised must have been left for him, and across from the bed was a dresser, with a mirror sat on top. He wished he could get himself high up enough to look at his reflection, but the thought of getting onto his feet and _staying_ there was a bit daunting. Probably for the best. The walls were painted a soft blue, calming and matte, decorated with a few framed posters for movies Jon had never seen. He had never had much patience for films, he didn’t care for the way people spoke in them. They never sounded real.

There were two doors. The white, wooden one appeared to lead to the corridor, if the light that came through the bottom of it was any indication. The yellow one did not.

He shut his eyes. _That_ door always gave him a headache.

As if on queue, he heard it creak open, and then that familiar, unsettling laugh. He stayed perfectly still.

“Oh, archivist. What have you gotten yourself into now?” Jon brought the sleeves of Martin’s jumper up to his face again, and said nothing. “It’s been a little while since you’ve had a field trip, isn’t it? A good long time, I should think. Who was it last time, the hunters? You were quite a mess after that one, I seem to remember. Or was it the church? I know they prefer home visits.”

“I’m not supposed to talk to you.” Jon forced out, barely a whisper. Michael must have heard it through, because it laughed again, that high pitched giggle echoing around the room.

“Oh? Why not?”

“Elias doesn’t like you.”

“Well, _I_ don’t like _Elias_ . No, I know these people, archivist. They’re not who you believe them to be.” Jon had no idea what that could even begin to mean. Had he gotten their powers wrong? He was quite good at telling now, only now and then mistaking imposter for liar, hunter for soldier, disease for gore and so on. Except, these people had been...a lot more of a varied bunch. Which was terrifying in and of itself. He had no _idea_ what to expect, how they might come together to think of something new and terrifying and _painful_. He shivered.

“What are you doing here?” He croaked. Michael never paid him visits when he was taken away from Elias, and whenever it turned up in the cell, it never ended up staying for long, not before Elias could notice and storm down to make sure it was gone. Michael made a little noise of indifference 

“I like to come by here every now and then anyways, check in on them. So when I realised _you_ were here too, well, I had to pop in. Say ‘hello’. That’s what friends do, isn’t it?” Jon said nothing. “No, this lot are a very _different_ bunch, that’s for certain. I can see you fitting in with them rather well, little archivist.” Jon didn’t have the energy to try to unpack what that meant. It hardly mattered anyways. Elias would be here in a few days, a week tops. The longest he had taken was a month, and Jon could see at the time that even Elias realised he had left it too long, after the circus people had taken him. He had been a little gentler with him after that, for a little while.

Footsteps from the corridor, muffled by the soft carpet, began to inch closer to the closed door, and Michael hummed. Jon felt goosebumps freckle across his skin.

“Well, I think that’s time for me to go. I’ll be seeing you later, archivist, I’m sure. Yes, this should be very interesting indeed.”

The air crackled and popped in the space where the entity that called itself Michael moved back towards a door that creaked on its hinges, and by the time Jon looked up again, the door had disappeared altogether. He could still hear the footsteps outside. He maneuvered himself so he knelt on his knees, head pressed against the carpet, and debated on whether or not to keep the jumper on, but figured that if Martin had put it _on_ him, he would decide when it should be taken off. He crossed his wrists in front of him, and waited.

There was a knock at the door. Jon stayed carefully quiet.

“Hey, Jon?” Jon recognised Martin’s voice from the other side of the door. He stayed carefully quiet. “I heard a bump from downstairs, I was just worried you might have fallen. May I come in?” He didn’t say anything. Martin would come in if he wanted to. “Okay, uh, I’ll come in just to see if you’re hurt, if that’s okay?” There was silence, and then the slight scraping sound as the door handle was turned with the care of someone who had long since learned to stay as quiet as possible when entering a space. Light flooded the room from the corridor, and Jon winced, carefully keeping his eyes closed. 

“Oh!” Martin yelped in surprise. “Oh, uh, y-you don’t have to do that. You can sit up if you want.” Jon gave the tiniest nod, sitting back up on his knees, tugging at the jumper to make sure it still sat _firmly_ below his waist, hoping Martin wouldn’t notice. He gave no indication of it, if he had. “Did you fall out of bed?” He asked, gently. There was no point in lying to him, so he nodded again. “Ah, right, I’m sorry.” Martin knelt down so that they were on the same level, the same way he had done back in the cell. “Uh, would you like help getting comfy _back_ in bed?” Jon lifted his eyes just a little, balancing the layers that question might hold. He hadn’t taken him back in the cell, not even when he thought he was going to, maybe he was waiting until he was at his own bed? If this _was_ Martin’s own bed. It would explain why he had been put in it in the first place. Something must have shown on Jon’s face, because a look of mortification came over Martins.

“Oh, no, no!” He stammered, waving his hands nervously. “No, not like that, just because I thought you were probably still worn out, a-and it seemed like you were in pain, so I thought you might like to rest longer! Not because…that’s not to say that…I-I mean I…” Martin’s face was turning beet red. He cleared his throat and took a deep breath. “I just thought you might be more comfortable up there, is all,” he sighed.

Jon hesitated, old wounds flaring up at the memory of Elias’ opinions on Jon being ‘comfortable’. This could just as easily be another trick. Why else would Martin want him on the bed, if not for _that_?

“Why?” He settled for, cringing when it came out in a stammer. Martin was quiet for a moment, and he wondered if he had overstepped. Martin wasn’t really giving much away. It felt like the early days, with Elias, never knowing quite what he was thinking or planning. He didn’t exactly know now, either, but he had stopped having to guess so much. 

“I…I don’t want to, y’know, _do_ anything, you know? Genuinely I don’t, and I know that you don’t know me, and you have no reason to _trust_ me, but…” He took a deep breath. “I won’t do that, okay? I promise. You don’t have to get onto the bed, not if it upsets you. But I can get you some cushions if you want to stay on the floor.”

Jon was too bewildered to do anything but nod along. What was Martin’s play here? First the jumper, now this. If he was trying to butter him up, he needn’t bother. Jon would much rather he just did whatever it was he wanted to do. Nevertheless, the floor seemed safer for now. Beds held far too much expectation, and it would only make it harder to adjust when he was given back to Elias. 

“Okay! We can do that, that’s no issue. A friend is on her way over, and we told her to try and pick up some clothes on the way, just some basics, so you’re not just stuck wearing my old jumper,” Jon’s hands clenched round the fabric in his hands instinctively at the horrifying thought of having to return it, and Martin backpedalled quickly. “You can still wear it, if you want to though! Honestly, I have a hundred like it. But we can get you other stuff as well, give you a bit of variety. Until then, you could take a bath, wash your hair? Or we could get you something to eat, maybe?”

As if on queue, Jon’s stomach growled in protest and he winced. The thought of food and a bath…well, there had to be a catch. How far did Martin’s patience and generosity go? What did he have planned that was so terrible it required such a lengthy rest period? Or perhaps the food or bath were the start of worse things to come?

There was no point in speculating. Whatever would happen would happen and Jon didn’t have the power to stop it. He may as well play along. He nodded.

“Would you prefer to eat first, or take a bath first?” Martin asked.

“...Eat first, please. If that’s okay.” Jon said in a laboured whisper, just managing to keep himself from saying ‘Sir’ when he remembered how Martin had last reacted to it. He would have to work out what title worked best at a later time. He couldn’t fathom using his first name. Martin smiled. 

“Of course it is! I’m, uh, not exactly a world class chef, but let's see what we can rustle up, yeah? Would you be okay with me carrying you to the kitchen?”

Deciding it was much better than crawling, Jon nodded. 

Martin got his feet underneath him and scooped Jon up, much like he had done back in the cell, and for the second time, they left a room and embarked into the unknown.

* * *

Tim’s kitchen was one of the smaller galley kitchens often found in London houses that prioritised entertainment space over cooking space, and it smelled _beautifully_ of lemon cake. The culprit sat on the counter top on a cooling rack, with a short but strongly worded note asking the reader to _kindly_ let it cool first. Martin smiled softly. He really liked citrus.

But it was probably best that Jon had something a little more hearty first.

He looked behind his shoulder from where he stood in front of the fridge. He had sat Jon onto one of Tim’s trendy breakfast bar stools, and he looked as if he wanted to slide back down onto the floor. His legs were closed tightly together, his hands folded onto his lap, and his eyes stayed glued to the floor. He hadn’t said a word since he’d asked to eat, and Martin couldn’t help but wonder what was going on in his head. What he thought was going to happen to him, what was going to be _done_ to him.

Sasha had retreated into the loft to study the tapes in private, and Martin hoped they’d reveal something. He just as easily hoped they were self help tapes. He didn’t know if he wanted to know what they could contain, if the wasteland of Jon’s body was any testament to his experience at Elias’s house. 

Georgie was on her way. Maybe that would help. He had to hope it would.

He wouldn’t say it to anyone, but he was struggling a little.

Despite what people often thought, Martin wasn’t as adept at being helpful as he would love to be. He was nervous and bumbling and emotional, and he lacked the detachment that you needed sometimes to be able to truly help in any meaningful way. It was why he preferred to stay by the kettle.

His mother…she wasn’t a woman who liked to be helped, _least_ of all by him. She had been a bit better when he was younger at least, letting Martin take care of her without too much fuss. She hadn’t even kicked up a fuss when he came out as trans, adapting to his new name and pronouns rather quickly, and Martin had been over the moon.

It was when he was a little older, when he started going on T and began to physically transition. Something snapped.

And, well, Elias had made it perfectly clear why that was, hadn’t he?

Martin with a dress and long hair, softer skin and slighter build, was concealable enough. Martin wearing button up shirts, binding his chest, cutting his hair short, growing facial hair and hearing his voice drop lower and lower, was just far too familiar. 

He shook his head. This was different, in many ways. But he was still trying to help a person who saw a predator in him.

“I’m quite good at scrambled eggs,” he said out loud, when he was sure he could keep his voice steady. “I could do those, with some toast maybe?” He asked. Jon nodded. Martin hadn’t been expecting much else. He whisked together the eggs with milk, heated up some butter in the frying pan and stirred the eggs in slowly, seasoning lightly. Every now and then, he saw Jon looking at him in his periphery, and he wondered if the smaller man had a question for him, but eventually he realised Jon was looking at the pan. 

He wondered when Jon had last eaten. His body was _painfully_ thin, and Elias didn’t seem like he was concerned with providing regular meals. He had read somewhere in one of his old war thrillers that when you were feeding someone who was malnourished (in the context of his books, this was usually POW camp survivors), it was important not to overfeed them, or they could be sick. Still, Martin added just a little bit more butter, making sure they were creamy and fluffy when he spooned them onto two slices of buttered bread, one for him and one for Jon, and set it in front of him, taking a seat across from the thin man.

“I hope they’re okay!” Martin said warmly, his own stomach growling a bit as he picked up his knife and fork. “Just let me know if you want any more salt or pepper.” He carved a slice off and put it into his mouth, gasping a little at the heat but humming in appreciation. He was onto his second mouthful when he realised Jon hadn’t made any move to pick up his fork. “Jon? Is anything wrong?” Jon looked up to him, but didn’t meet his eye. He looked back at his eggs again, licking his lips absentmindedly. “You’re…allowed to eat, you know,” Martin tried, hesitantly. “If that’s what you’re worried about.”

Jon nodded, and cleared his throat nervously, reaching for his fork with thin, unsteady fingers. He scooped up a forkful of eggs off of the bread and brought them hesitantly to his lips, taking a small bite. His eyes widened in surprise, and he looked down to his plate, and then back at Martin.

“Jon? Is it okay?”

“Why…” he bit down on his lip, shutting his eyes tight.

“It’s okay, Jon, you can ask me questions.” He said as gently as he could manage, a coal of pain burning in his belly at the sight of so much fear directed his way. 

“Why are you being so nice to me?” Jon whispered, so fast Martin almost didn’t catch it. He blanched, putting his cutlery down. What was he supposed to say to _that?_

Sasha had been very clear when they’d gotten back that he was _not_ to overwhelm Jon with information, to wait until they understood what had happened to him. 

Martin didn’t need to know all of what had happened to know the answer to that question.

“Because you deserve it.” He said. _Even if this is really, really basic human kindness._

Jon brought his legs up to his chest, pulling the baggy jumper over them and burying his face in his knees.

“No,” he whispered. “I don’t.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “...different.”
> 
> Both heads snapped towards the figure on the floor, who had raised his head just a little, his eyebrows furrowed. Martin knelt down and crept a little closer to him. Jon tensed, but didn’t cower more than he had been. 
> 
> “What was that? Are you okay?” Tim heard Martin ask gently. He took a step back, giving the two a wide berth. He’d done enough damage here already.
> 
> “Why…” Jon’s voice was painfully quiet, and he had to strain to hear. “Why are you all different?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all.....I am SO so sorry
> 
> I really didn't want this to take as long as it did, but there was just one disaster after another in my personal life and it was hard to work up the motivation to write! The next chapter will be quicker I swear, I'm sorry for leaving you on tenterhooks!
> 
> CW's for this chapter:
> 
> \- Panic Attacks  
> \- Nightmares  
> \- Brief descriptions of burning, and the circus  
> \- Intrusive, violent thoughts  
> \- Some incredibly vague illusions to torture and pain
> 
> enjoy kids x

Tim’s post-nightmare ritual started with brushing his teeth. After a nightmare, where up is down and nothing is right and everything is terrifying, brushing his teeth was one of the most mundane ways to ease him back into the often equally terrifying reality. 

Sasha had gotten him the cinnamon flavoured toothpaste as a gag-gift years ago, but he had actually quite liked it and had sourced it ever since, even if it  _ was  _ a bit pricey. Now that the heat of it filled his mouth, he understood a little better why that was. 

He rinsed and spit, slashing his face with cold water before he dared to glance in the bathroom mirror. He looked older. 

He had dreamt about Danny. He had had some variation of this dream fairly regularly since that awful night in the Royal Opera House. It never  _ started  _ at the Royal Opera House, but at some point in the dream he always realised he was there, found himself moving without meaning to, heading to the place where he saw that clown, saw it rip the skin off of something that looked painfully like Danny. Except this time was different. 

He ended up at the Royal Opera House again, and he made his usual journey, instead where the clown should have been, there was a spider. Big and nasty, a great hulking body with far too many eyes, and an incongruously formal hat. It had led him down through stairs that had never been there before, into a dark, dank cavern, so dark he could barely see a hand in front of his face until at his feet, perfectly visible and outlined in the darkness, was a body. Starved thin, pockmarked and scarred, trembling with exhaustion or hunger or terror or perhaps all three. Tim had reached out a hand and set him alight. 

He’d woken up retching.

It was his fault for thinking he could have a peaceful nap after the day they had had, really. His hands clenched and unclenched in an unsteady rhythm. Burning down Jonah’s house had helped more than he liked to admit, but he still felt it inside him, steady as his pulse. The urge to burn. And it was more than just the physical act, more and more he was finding. Snapping at Sasha today, in the van...it had felt good. He didn’t want it to feel good. He had that same feeling in the dream, deep in his stomach, when he had touched a burning hand to Jonathan Sims. 

He leaned against the sink, taking a deep breath. Who was he? Why did the sight of him awake something in all of them? He knew he wasn’t alone; he saw how Daisy had looked in the van, the concerned looks Basira had given her. Saw the tension in Melanie’s face, the restraint in Sasha’s. 

How long had he been down there in the dark?

He shook his head. It was time for step two of his post-nightmare ritual, and that was oven chips. It used to be ice cream, but it melted way too quickly now. 

He pulled on an old dressing gown over his pyjamas (though it was nothing the rest of their little mystery gang hadn’t seen before) and plodded down the stairs, humming something unidentifiable under his breath, stopping mid stride as he neared the kitchen.

It wasn’t empty. Martin stood at the sink, washing dishes quietly, which was unlike him. He usually put music on or maybe a podcast, or at least sang to himself. Now he was silent, and Tim could see where his posture was stiff and tense. The source of it seemed to be sitting at the breakfast bar, on the other side of the kitchen. 

The man who had slept on Martins lap was now awake, his hands wrapped around his shoulders and eyes glued to the floor. He was stiff and tense, and his whole body  _ reeked  _ of confusion and terror. His sleeves had fallen down a bit, revealing skinny wrists and forearms that told a story of their own. Bruises circled his arms, dotted as they were with scars like his, ragged circles where worms had burrowed their way in and presumably been yanked out. 

But what caught Tims eye was the burns.

The burn scars wrapped around Jon’s wrists like fingers, restraining and forceful. He felt his own hands begin to warm.

“Hello,” He said, for lack of a better word.

The thin man flinched, jumping to attention at the new presence. His face, no longer smoothed and still with sleep, was tense and hard set, only his eyes betraying his apprehension. Eyes which centred on Tim’s chest, before darting back down to the floor. He was shivering.

_ He’s shorter than you,  _ a voice in Tim’s brain whispered.  _ He’s small and he’s thin, so easy to break. I wonder how his flesh smells when it’s cooking. What he sounds like when he cries. It would be so easy to find out. _

He didn’t actually realise that he had started walking towards Jon until he saw him slide off his stool and drop to the floor, kneeling with his head pressed to the cool tiles. Martin took a hold of his arm.

“Tim? Hey, maybe give him some space.” The edge in Martin’s voice gave away the air of control he was trying hard to exude.

_ He’s frightened, frightened of  _ you _ , you could destroy him, it wouldn’t even be hard, all you’d have to do is reach out… _

“Tim!”

_ Feel his fear? Feel the crumbling structure of his body? Watch it dissolve like Jonah Magnus did, destroy this souvenir you’ve taken from the bowels of his home… _

“Tim,  _ stop! _ ”

He grunted at the sharp sting across his cheek. He blinked back to awareness. Martin was in front of him, hands gripping his forearms and thunder across his face.

“What’s  _ wrong  _ with you, back off!” He hissed. “For God's sake, look at him!”

He did, properly this time, without the wavy haze of heat clouding his vision. Jonathan, Jon, Melanie had called him, was huddled tight on the floor, hands fisted in his hair, trembling. He remembered his dream in frightening clarity, and his stomach dropped through to the floor. 

“Oh, fuck, I’m sorry.” He turned back to Martin. “Sorry, I….I don’t know what came over me, honestly, I wouldn’t have.”

“Are you  _ certain  _ about that? Are you  _ actually _ ?” Martin hissed. He released Tim and took a deep breath. “I’m sorry for hitting you.”

“Don’t be.”

“Oh. Okay, good, then I’m not sorry.”

“...different.”

Both heads snapped towards the figure on the floor, who had raised his head just a little, his eyebrows furrowed. Martin knelt down and crept a little closer to him. Jon tensed, but didn’t cower more than he had been. 

“What was that? Are you okay?” Tim heard Martin ask gently. He took a step back, giving the two a wide berth. He’d done enough damage here already.

“Why…” Jon’s voice was painfully quiet, and he had to strain to hear. “Why are you all different?” His face turned ashen as the attention in the room was turned to him, the confidence he had been able to muster in order to speak up seemingly having fled him. “Sorry-”

“N-no, it’s okay! It’s okay to ask things, don’t worry! But...what is it you’re actually asking?”

Jon swallowed, eyes darting up to Tim. He hoped that whatever expression was currently playing on his face didn’t add to his anxiety. He remembered the dream, remembered how natural it had felt to reach down and set him aflame. He shut his eyes. The voice in his head hadn’t gone.

_ He’s weak you’re strong he’s weak you’re strong you can hurt him you can destroy him you can burn him… _

“He...he’s…” Jon shut his eyes, as if searching for the right words. “Fire...a-and destruction, and you’re th-the mist, the lonely place.” He spoke brokenly, words muddling in order as he said them. “And the...the woman earlier, she was a hunter. And-” He cut himself off, eyes screwed shut. “She...the other…”

“You mean Melanie?” Martin supplied. Jon flinched, head pressing down into the tile.

“S’not Melanie.” He whispered.

Martin turned round to Tim helplessly. Did he mean…? Was this the paranoia and understandable terror from someone who had clearly been at the mercy of more than one flavour of supernatural terror…

Or the certainty of someone who knew something they didn’t?

_ Later _ , Tim mouthed. Martin nodded solemnly. He turned back to Jon, clearly trying hard to move  _ that _ to the back of his mind.

“Well…yes, we are all different, I suppose. We serve different…uh…Gods? I guess you’d say? Not really our choice- uh, well it technically  _ was  _ our choice, we all made choices, just maybe they weren’t ones we  _ should- _ anyways, sorry. Yes, we’re a varied club.” Jon sat with that for a moment, and then briefly wet his lips to speak again with trembling lips.

“What…what are you going to d-do to me?”

_ Burn him burn him burn him burn him burn him _ .

Tim took a step back, as if pushed by a great force. It was too much, too potent. The terror, the expectation of pain, it was finer than top shelf whiskey. Not for the first time, he loathed himself for the thrill beneath his skin at the thought of another's pain. Martin carried on, oblivious.

“I…we’re going to  _ help  _ you,” he said, a note in his voice that broke Tim’s heart. This wasn’t the first time Martin had had to help someone not willing to accept it, after all. “That’s all we want to do.”

“I don’t understand,” Jon’s voice had risen an octave in obvious panic, his hands clawing in his hair. “Y-you don’t have to p-pretend, just do whatever you want b-before El-...b-before I go back.”

What on earth was he meant to do with  _ that _ ? Had Elias done this before, leant him out to different monsters? And for what? Horribly, Tim found the slightest bit of comfort to know that he hadn't been exclusively confined to that horrid little room.

“But...why? Why would we want to?” Martin asked, desperately. Jon raised his head just a few millimeters off the ground, face solemn.

“I’m the archivist. That’s what I’m for.”

* * *

The tape recorder clicked to a stop as the recording ended, and Sasha pushed herself back from the desk. If she  _ was  _ going to vomit, she didn’t want her notes to get stained. 

Those tapes…

There were more,  _ many  _ more she hadn’t touched, and she was painfully aware that at some point she might have to, if the amount she’d learned from the few she’d been able to stomach was anything to go by. But what she’d heard so far…she’d felt a lot of fear, and a lot of pain, reading statements as she had for years. This was something new altogether. This wasn’t just the terror of an otherwise normal person encountering something world breaking. 

This was constant, repeated terror, always new and always painful.

And with so many familiar voices outside those broken cries and sobbed out words.

Familiar voices calling him by that sickening moniker.

_ Little Archivist... _

“Not to your liking?”

Static filled the room and Sasha turned around to face the yellow door that she knew would be behind her. Michael grinned that unsettling grin, it’s knife-like fingers utterly failing to conceal it from view.

“You know perfectly well it wasn’t,” Sasha choked out. “What the hell is this?”

“What it looks like, I’m sure. It’s always the quiet ones, isn’t that what they say? Elias ran everything else in his life like he did his institute…thoroughly documented.” 

“Those tapes…are you on any of them?” Her voice went weak. She  _ really  _ didn’t want to vomit. To her surprise, Michael stiffened.

“Not in that capacity, it seems. Mich- that is, the body I’m borrowing, he feels somewhat protective over the man. We came to a compromise. That doesn’t mean his fear wasn’t  _ delicious _ . But no, I never laid a hand on him. Took him through my tunnels once,” It looked back through the door absently. “Elias didn’t like that very much at all.”

“He didn’t seem to care about any of the others  _ laying a hand on him _ ,” she spat out. “Why? What for? Why do…any of this?” Such  _ senseless  _ violence…it was indicative of The Slaughter, or perhaps The Desolation, not the careful neutrality and uninvolved invasion of The Eye. 

It tilted its head. “You mean you don’t  _ know _ ? You have his tape, don’t you? The one he left for you.”

Sasha shivered. She looked at the offending tape, the one she was told had been tied inside Jonathan’s mouth. She hadn’t had the courage quite yet.

“I…haven’t quite gotten round to it.” She admitted. She could already feel herself getting…full, from the tapes she had poured through, and this would be quite a hearty meal. Michael tittered, it’s unsettling laugh floating around the room.

“That’s the part of your job you’ve never quite been able to fulfil, isn’t it Archivist? Curiosity. You’re telling me you don’t want to know what’s on it?”

“Of course I don’t.” She sat back down heavily, struck with the sudden and overwhelming urge to cry. “Why would  _ anyone  _ want to learn  _ any  _ of this?”

“Gertrude would have.” 

“Gertrude and I are  _ very  _ different people.” It giggled again.

“Less so than you’d think, Archivist.” It sighed. “You may want to, ah, keep an Eye on him. This house of horrors is a powderkeg as it is.” It grinned. “And you’ve just taken Elias’ very favourite lighter.”

Before she could even begin to decipher what that meant, it was gone.

It didn’t take her long once she’d started.

_ Avatars feed off of fear _ , she mused.  _ And Jon has more of a right than anyone to be utterly terrified. _

Oh  _ fuck. _

Without thinking about it, The Eye snapped open and took her to the kitchen, where saw Martin, worried and stammering, Tim, tense and simmering under the surface. And Jon, cowering on the floor, terrified and confused.

She rushed down the stairs, so fast she wondered that she didn’t twist her ankle, taking them three at a time and practically sliding to the entrance of the kitchen.

“Get away from him!” Sasha cried out, wincing at how desperate she sounded. 

Tim and Martin seemed to jump a foot in the air, darting round to take her in, dishevelled and panicked.

“Sasha, what-” Tim choked out.

“Just trust me!” She half yelled, ignoring the way Jon flinched. “You’re feeling it, aren’t you? That urge?”

“Wh- have you  _ looked in my head  _ again-”

“No! No, I can explain it, just…please, back away from him.” She was begging now. Tim looked…rough. Eyes red-rimmed from exhaustion and in his pyjamas and dressing gown, sweating with the effort not to fly towards the flame of Jonathan Sims. Watching Tim resent her, sneer at her, turn his back on her when she thought he would be the one in her corner when no one else was…it was hard, even if she could understand why. But now, especially now, she needed his trust.

She couldn’t stomach the thought of anyone else having to listen to those tapes.

Tim held up his hands in supplication and side stepped out of the kitchen, looking just a little relieved to do so. Martin stayed. 

“Martin, you too, please.” She said. He didn’t seem to be…holding back like Tim was. She couldn’t sense any desire to hurt Jon at all. He knelt in front of Jon, obscuring him for her sight, looking not unlike a mother hen.

“W-wait, what are you going to do?” He asked indignantly. “Why do I have to step away?”

“I…” She sighed. “It’s best if I explain it in private, okay? But for now, it’s best we keep him  _ away  _ from us and the others, at least until Georgie gets here.” 

At the mention of Georgie’s name, a breathy gasp was torn from behind Martin, causing him to turn round in surprise. Jon was breathing a little heavier, eyes darting around as if solving an equation, his shoulders taught and trembling. They shot up, and for a moment settled on Sasha. 

He stilled abruptly.

“Martin…please.” She said in what was most definitely not whimper. Martin gave her a long look, before slowly rising to his knees. He didn’t leave the kitchen, but instead sat back up at the breakfast bar, close enough to potentially intervene. She’d take what she could get.

She steeled herself and stepped into the kitchen. Jon was still looking at her, carefully avoiding her eyes, but other than that, his warm brown eyes poured over hers. He looked…dumbfounded, and confused.

It didn’t help that The Eye was beginning to scratch at the back of her brain.

_ Know him, see him, rip his stories from him if he won’t give them willingly, learn from him… _

She bit her lip and pushed through it, doing her best to shove the nagging thoughts away.

She knelt down by him, deciding it was best to meet him at his level. He was still drowning in Martin's jumper, and she hoped Georgie would be round with clothes soon. She had to swallow down bile as she was able to see some of his visible scars when she realised she had probably heard their origin.

“My name is Sasha James.” She said, because it seemed like a good place to start. “Melanie told us your name is Jon?”

He shook his head against the tile. 

“N-not anymore. Not s’posed to be called that anymore.” He mumbled.

She remembered the tapes, remembered how in the few nauseating ones she’d listened to, that name had never been used once. Which brought her onto a bigger, more pressing issue.

“I...I work for The Magnus Institute. I’m the head archivist...or rather,  _ The  _ Archivist.”

There were several seconds of silence. So many that Sasha worried self-consciously that maybe he hadn’t heard her. His expression was unreadable, his lips quivering with questions he seemed to be dying to ask. Sasha knew how Elias had felt about  _ questions  _ when it came to him.

“You can ask me a question, if something’s on your mind.” She said helplessly, trying to summon that professional calm that Gertrude had always had, the kind she needed if she was going to survive this. Jon struggled with that for a bit, but raised his head a touch higher and wet his lips.

“Cost?” He murmured.

“Sorry, what was that?”

“W...what c-cost? F-for the question.” He stammered, his voice getting weaker with every word. She felt Martin stiffen beside him, and she could feel her head swim a little. She had to stay calm, couldn’t scare and confuse him any more than her presence obviously was.

“No cost. You can ask questions freely here, that right won’t be taken from you.” She said calmly and evenly, even as her heart threatened to leap out of her chest. She could vomit later, punch something if she needed to, but not now. Not where Jon could see. He looked confused, suspicious, and she couldn’t fault him for it. Not after...however long it had been that he’d been down there in the dark. He took a deep breath and looked up, eyes meeting her neck.

“Where is Elias?” He whispered.

She took a deep breath. She couldn’t hesitate, couldn’t show her panic, couldn’t stammer over her words. Not for the first time, she wished The Stranger had succeeded in replacing her long ago. Maybe it would be better at this than she was. 

“He’s dead. We killed him, and then we found you.” She said, as briefly as she could.

There was a few seconds of absolute silence as Jon sat with that. He held his breath, and then let it out again. And once he’d started gasping for breath he couldn’t stop. 

Sasha didn’t realise she had been moved until her feet touched the rough hardwood instead of the cool kitchen tiles, and she realised Martin had moved her away. He was looking at her, face hard, and Sasha tried to concentrate on what he was saying on top of Jon’s cries of alarm and confusion.

“...were you  _ thinking!  _ You were the one who said we had to be careful, not overwhelm him!”

“That was before I understood who he was. What had been done to him.” She looked up at him. “He deserves to know. He deserves to finally have some level of  _ clarity _ , whatever that means now.” She swallowed. “He deserves to have his questions answered. God knows he must have them.”

She didn’t realise she was shaking until Martin winced.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean…you’re right he does just…” He looked back at Jon, who was hyperventilating on the floor, and immediately dashed over, trying his best to get through to him without touching him.

It took a while, five or so minutes of Martin trying desperately to speak with him, with Jon flinching violently at any hint of contact, mumbling nonsensical words and pleas, before Jon finally passed out, exhausted from his outburst, the lack of oxygen, and what was likely the rare sensation of having a belly full of food. Martin sat back on his heels, rubbing at his face, clearly exhausted.

“What do we do now?” He said softly, his energy seemingly having fled him for the time being. 

“ _ Now _ , we get Jon back into a bed, let him rest.” Sasha mused.

“Not a bed.”

“Sorry?”

“He didn’t like the bed, it made him panic. It held...too much expectation, I think. I was going to make up something comfy on the floor for him.” At Tim’s questioning look, he shrugged. “It’s his choice, isn’t it? If that’s what he needs, it’s what he needs.” Sasha nodded, her mind once again cast back to the tapes, and she shut her eyes tight against the phantom voices in the familiar retro static of the old technology.

“Boss?” She opened her eyes. Tim was in front of her, face pinched with concern. She hated how good it felt, to be worried after just a little. “What is it, what do we do next?”

“Next, we get the others together. There’s quite a bit I have to share, and I’d rather just do it the once. I listened to some of the tapes, not many. Those were... _ more  _ than enough, for now. Though I know I’ll have to get through the others some other time…” Her voice trailed off.

“I’ll get the others.” He hesitated. “Sasha...he called himself the  _ archivist _ .” Sasha winced. It made sense.

“I’ll explain what I know, I promise you, I just want to do it when we have everyone in the same place. I’d rather not repeat it more than I have to.”

Tim looked at her a moment before nodding and stalking off to the stairs to rouse the rest of them from wherever they’d slinked off to to recharge. Martin scooped Jon up, holding in his arms just like he had when Sasha had first laid eyes on him, small and fragile and exhausted.

“I’ll get him comfortable, yeah? Some pillow on the floor and stuff, just so it’s padded. Then I’ll come back down. I’m…sorry, for yelling, earlier, I didn’t-”

“It’s okay.” Sasha insisted. “I think it’s good that Jon has someone in his corner, right now.”

Martin blushed, tightening his hold on him. “Well,  _ someone _ has to be. It’s…it’s all very well, facing problems on your own, but sometimes…sometimes you need people in your corner. I’m trying to remember that.” He faltered for a minute, and then nodded, carrying Jon down the corridor and towards the stairs.

Once he was out of sight, Sasha collapsed back into one of the bar stools, swallowing a sob. It was too much, all of it. How was  _ any  _ human being supposed to deal with this?

_ You’re not even dealing with it,  _ he  _ is. You’re just getting off on it _ .

“Shut up.” she murmured, hiding her head in her hands. She knew the answer, of course. The answer was to not  _ be  _ a human, not fully.

A decision she knew in her heart she hadn’t yet made. 

She wondered how far along she was sometimes. Wondered how long it would take until there was nothing of Sasha James left, and her whole being was given over to The Eye. She took another breath, wiped her eyes that were beginning to itch suspiciously, and did her best to centre herself. She could get through this, however horrible it was going to be. She just couldn’t deal with any more stimulation for a few minutes.

Which of course is when the doorbell rang.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I...I haven’t done anything-”
> 
> “It doesn’t matter. It’s not what you’ve done, it’s who you are. Who you were born as. And you weren’t born to be like everyone else, Jonathan.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey so can you forgive me being very late with this for the fact that it's a Long Boy?
> 
> Also....hey so the last few episodes huh!!!!!
> 
> Content warnings for this chapter:
> 
> \- Arachnophobia/Spider stuff  
> \- Panic/panic attacks  
> \- Ableist language and slurs  
> \- Internalised ablesim  
> \- Meltdown (not heavily described at all)  
> \- Mentions of Martins shit mum  
> \- Alcohol  
> \- Mentions of torture and rape, as well as conditioning  
> \- Gaslighting and emotional manipulation  
> \- Thirst and dehydration  
> \- Canon-typical dark shit  
> \- Canon typical eye shit  
> \- Canon typical web shit
> 
> Let me know if I forgot anything!

_There hadn’t been any real theatrics in the actual kidnapping._

_He had left Gertrude’s office, feeling completely and utterly drained, the long and hairy legs from his story seemingly always just out of his sight. She had been…a little curt, to say the least, but she had certainly perked up when he had mentioned the name on the inside cover of that book. He didn’t know how he’d ever forget it._

_Elias hadn’t dragged him into a van outside the building, hadn’t cornered him down an alley, hadn’t even had the decency to lure him onto a trapdoor. Nothing to make him absolutely sure it could have been prevented._

_All he’d done was invite him into his office for tea._

_Jon knew roughly who Elias Bouchard was, of course. The Magnus Institute wasn’t a heavily prolific academic institute by any means, but when you’d spent most of your life looking for answers that can only be found in the supernatural, you keep your eye on certain circles. Elias had been…a surprise hire, it seemed. A relatively young man to be running what really was rather a large building. A man who certainly shouldn’t have the time to offer tea to a random statement giver._

_But it is said that the fear of offending is worse than the fear of pain._

_The tea had been drugged, of course. He had woken up in darkness, his clothes gone and a bitter aftertaste in his mouth. It was a good few hours before Elias greeted him, turning on a light that Jon couldn’t see._

_He had argued at first, would have tried to fight the man if the drugs hadn’t still been worryingly present in his system, demanded to be let out, had offered him money he knew he didn't have, a promise of silence he knew he wouldn’t keep, summoning all of his secondary school acting experience in a million meaningless promises, and Elias didn’t speak once. He just smiled, gently, the smile you give to an aging relative who’s long since stopped saying sense._

_That was the first time he’d properly felt it. The Eye on him. It had been there, in the Institute, but…diluted, somehow. An extra is watched in a crowd scene, just as much as anyone else, but now, with the spotlight on him, the Eye burned through him, saw every lie that formed in his brain, leapt off of his tongue. Eventually, he turned away, and left Jon to the darkness, and the silence._

_And so he had paced, running his hand along the wall, marking out the space with the senses he still had available to him. There wasn’t a scrap of furniture to speak of, except for a metal bucket in the corner that didn’t bare thinking about. It did, however, make him rather aware of the fact that he hadn’t eaten anything since the morning of his interview with Gertrude. Hadn’t drunken anything since the tea in Elias’ office. Jon was no stranger to forgetting to eat, too caught up in whatever else he was doing to even register the ache in his stomach, but now there was little else to focus on. He tried yelling upwards towards the ceiling, calling up to Elias or whoever else would hear him, but there was nothing._

_Eventually, he curled up back in the corner, trying to conserve the precious little body heat had. He tried singing to himself, just to give his mind something to do. Old Beatles songs, some old RnB songs that Georgie had loved to sing around the flat, as much of the Les Miserables soundtrack that he could manage off of the top of his head. He sang until he was too thirsty to sing anymore, and he focussed on curling in on himself as tight as he could, savouring the pitiful bursts of warmth he was able to conjure._

_That night he received his first visitor._

_The floor was hard, and cold, and Jon could only shiver helplessly, sleep seeming impossible. There was nothing but the darkness, cold and oppressive, heavy and thick as ink. Jon had never been particularly fond of the dark; his grandmother had a very strict lights-out policy, which young Jon hadn’t been very good at adhering to. After catching him reading by his night-light long past his bedtime for the fifth time, she had confiscated it, to at least_ try _and ensure Jon would attempt to get some rest. It hadn’t been a massive problem, not until after the Leitner. Not until Jon was sure that there were black, spindly legs in every shadow, until every innocuous noise sounded suspiciously like knocking._

_The feeling hadn’t plagued him in years, but now, in the dark, there was a scraping sound across the floor. A scraping, skittering sound._

_Jon curled up tight, shutting his mouth tight and covering his eyes with his hands. He just had to breathe, it was probably nothing. Just paranoia, and his mind inserting things that weren’t there, and holy_ fuck _he was being held in some lunatic CEO’s house how the_ fuck _had this become his life. His chest burned with anxiety._

_Something touched his leg._

_That wasn’t just down to paranoia._

_He scuttled back on his hands and knees, scrambling until he felt concrete at his back, and then edging along the wall until he found a corner. He curled himself into it, thankful that he’d had his hair cut short again. Nothing they could climb up or nest in. He wished he had his clothes._

_There was more skittering across the floor, and he whimpered, struggling to breathe with his mouth clamped so tight,_ but they can’t crawl in, can’t climb into my mouth, oh god oh god oh god-

_The skittering stopped. Instead, the sound that replaced it was solid, and heavy. Not the nimble tapping of tiny legs. Big legs, solid legs. So many of them._

_Whatever it was, it was moving closer in the dark, closer and closer until he felt it brushing up against his legs, curled up against his chest, those short, sharp, coarse hairs, thin and long, and so strong._

_He thought he was going to pass out._

_This had to be a nightmare, just another nightmare. Gertrude had said nightmares were common, after giving a statement, though he hadn’t missed the slight curl of her lip as she had. He would wake up back in his flat, make a morning coffee, watch Antiques Roadshow._

_But if it was a nightmare, why did it hurt so much?_

_How could it be a nightmare when he was so absolutely certain about who was in front of him?_

_“Please…” he gasped out. “P...please…I don’t understand…why am I here? What did I do?”_

_He hadn’t even considered that it would respond._

_“We set you on a path a long time ago,” a voice came from the darkness, staticky and faint, “and we were afraid you may have lost your way. We’ve taken some measurements to correct this.”_

_“W-what…” Jon took a breath that sounded suspiciously like a sob. His face felt wet, but he couldn’t so much as lift his hand to wipe what must have been tears away. “Where is this? Where am I?”_

_Something touched his cheek, rough and sharp, slowly wiping away his tears the same way one might trace a shape in the snow. Jon didn’t breathe, didn’t make a sound, didn’t move, as it moved to the other cheek and did the same. It made a noise, and soon Jon would come to recognise it as how this creature laughed._

_“You’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.”_

* * *

It was far too cold outside for the time of year, and The Admiral was making his discontent very well known. Georgie shushed him, and was immediately punished by an even _louder_ meow.

“Yes, I know.” She sighed. “I want to go inside too, but we don’t have a key.” She set down the plush bag that held the solid mass of Cat that made up The Admiral, along with the largest Primark paper bag, full to the brim and on the edge of complete destruction, and reached into her pocket for her phone. She had texted Melanie to let her know she was outside, but she didn’t appear to have read it. She knocked a second time, a little louder, but she didn’t feel good about it. From what she’d managed to gather, the house was…tense right now. She didn’t want to have to startle anyone by accident. She was able to recall Jon’s sometimes…intense reactions to knocking during their relationship, so much so that he preferred to keep the door propped open to any room he was in, so that the act wouldn’t be necessary at all. Or even the times they had gone to house parties together, and he’d stand outside the door, waiting patiently for Georgie to knock for them. There was clearly _something_ more there, but, like most things, Jon wasn’t willing to share what that something was. 

It wasn’t like Georgie couldn’t understand how difficult trauma could be to explain.

Just as she raised her hand to knock for a third time, a familiar voice cut through.

“Georgie?” It was Sasha, and she sounded just about as tired as Georgie felt. She felt the little buzzing in the back of her head that came with being Seen, and she shrugged off the discomfort. She could hardly blame Sasha for being a little cautious.

  
“The one and only. Hey, you know this door has a peephole, right?”

“Oh, God, yes, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean…I’ll let you in now.” The now familiar sound of approximately five heavy duty deadbolts being pulled back rang through the heavy oak door before it was yanked open.

Sasha looked…terrible. Her hair lay greasy and matted against her face, which was grey with stress and exhaustion. Her whole body seemed to be on the verge of collapse, waiting for that final trumpet to bring the wall crumbling down.

The Admiral had no inclination to indulge in small talk, and meowed in passing as he hopped from the confines of his bag and padded into the house.

“Hey-!” Georgie attempted to reach down and pull him back, but he was already gone. Sasha chuckled.

“Ah, let him explore. There’s no other animals here or anything just, ah, very hungry and tired avatars.”

“Well, you’ve convinced me.” Georgie huffed. “Here, let me bring this lot in, will you?” She gestured down to the bulging paper bag, and Sasha immediately stepped aside to let her and the bag pass through.

“Woah. That’s a…lot.”

“Yeah, well, Melanie said he needed clothes, so…clothes. I got a few sizes because, you know, it _has_ been years and I don’t know if he’d gained weight, or _lost_ weight, though God knows how that could be even _physically_ possible, though hey who knows, until a few hours ago I thought Jon was getting work as a librarian or an English teacher or something boring, maybe a few cats, a flat in London, not…” She stopped in the corridor, dropping the bag heavily. “Well…well, I don’t _know_ what, do I?”

“I’m going to explain what I know, I promise. Before you see him, I just have to explain.” Georgie swallowed and nodded.

“That bad, huh?”

“Georgie-”

“No, I know, I…” The adrenaline that had kept Georgie running around Primark and making lists in her head of everything and anything she could remember about Jon’s favorite foods and music and the way he liked his hair to be stroked and the jokes she made that he used to laugh at, and just how close they used to be, how they used to be able to look at each other from across a room and know exactly what the other was thinking. How much it had hurt to admit that things weren’t working, how resigned Jon had looked when she had sat down with him and talked things through. How she had told him not to be a stranger as she walked out of the flat. How she hadn’t even known he was missing. How she hadn’t even known he was missing. How she hadn’t even known he was _missing_.

“Georgie. Georgie _breathe_ , okay?” There were hands on her shoulders, and she knew they weren’t Melanie’s; for one thing, these were hands that were clearly coming from someone taller than her, not from someone who was having to tilt their head up to look at her. She realised that she in fact _wasn’t_ breathing, and that this was in fact good advice on Sasha’s part.

“S-sorry...sorry, I’m fine, I’m okay. It’s just…”

“A lot, I know.”

“I haven’t seen him in _years_ , Sasha. I always just thought he was _fine_ -”

“You couldn't have known. I’m sorry, to get you dragged into this, it’s just…there’s no one else.” Georgie shook her head emphatically.

“No, no don’t apologise. I’m glad I’m here, that I can do something that’s not...well, that’s not too _spooky_ .” She took another breath, holding it in for a few seconds before releasing it. “Tell me everything you know so far, don’t spare me anything just because you feel like you should, I _know_ what you’re like.” Sasha huffed.

“Guilty as charged. Tim is getting the others together, I’d rather get it all done at once, you know?”

“Yeah, I know.” She sighed, looking down at the pile of clothes, all in the muted greens and faded brick red that she remembered Jon favouring. Trousers, warm jumpers, t-shirts, even a few long librarian skirts, assuming he still wore them. She had done a lot of assuming. “I wish I’d thought to bring wine too.”

* * *

_He must have fallen asleep, or passed out, or perhaps no time had passed at all, it was hard to tell in the dark, because soon the door to the basement was open again, and he flinched away from the sudden light in the room, eyes burning as the room suddenly had dimension again. He was still curled up in the corner, and when he straightened his legs in front of him he had to bite back a cry of pain. He looked around the room carefully; there was nothing. Nothing but Elias, that was._

_“What the hell was that?” He snapped, his words not carrying the bite he wanted them to, instead sounding feeble and desperate. “I suppose you listened to my statement? And w-what, you got creative with some special effects or something? What do you_ want _from me, just let me go!”_

_Elias just looked over him once, turned around and left._

_“Come back here! You can’t just take me and then leave me to rot down here!” He cried out. The door slammed, and he was cast again into darkness._

_He paced for a little while longer, until the hunger made him stumble, and he slumped back down into the corner. Elias couldn’t keep him unfed for long, not if he wanted him for…whatever it is he wanted him for. He wasn’t sure yet. Plenty of people came out of the institute day after day, gave their statements and then got on with their business. He didn’t see why he was any different._

_He didn’t have the energy to sing, but he hummed, anything and everything that came to mind. It felt as if every note of every melody was disappearing the moment it passed through his throat, into the heavy darkness. If a tree falls in some lunatics secret dungeon, does it still make a sound?_

_He didn’t know how long it had been, curled up humming to himself, before he heard it again._

_Those scratching, skittering legs._

_It was no less terrifying than the time before._

_“Leave me alone,” he hissed, “j-just go away and leave me alone.” It was silent, for a little while, and Jon wandered for a moment if had ever been there in the first place. He hadn’t been here that long; his mind couldn’t play tricks on him already. Until suddenly, that awful, terrible voice rang out._

_“Did you ever wonder?” Jon’s muscles were painful with tension._

_“Wonder what?”_

_“What happened to him? To the boy who took your place.” There was a sinking feeling in his chest._ Yes. Most days. _“I wonder if you even remember him properly? You were so young…”_

_“I r-remember he was a bully.” He murmured. “H-he never liked me, and so he…happened to pick on me at the wrong time.” The Spider laughed, and Jon resisted pressing his hands against his ears. He wished he had his ear defenders. Or his clothes. Or anything._

_“You don’t sound very grateful.”_

_“He wasn’t trying to save me. He_ d-did _, but-”_

_“Did you know he was supporting a family?”_

_“...w-what?”_

_There was a horrible sound of cracking, grinding bone which something deep in Jon’s psyche informed him was the physical action of the Spider’s smile._

_“Oh yes. His father had long since up and left, and his mother wasn’t coping well on her own, not to mention his younger sister. She was about your age, you know, when it happened.”_

_“S-stop…”_ _  
  
_

_“Your grandmother kept them in good money, Jonathan. She knew they were struggling and she wanted to help. You_ knew _she knew how he treated you, and she kept helping him anyways. Do you know why?” Jon whimpered. “Because even she knew he was worth more than you are.”_

_“Shut up…”_

_“You called him a bully, but can you blame him? A ‘deeply annoying child’, you said? You were a burden to everybody you came across. Your parents, your grandmother, the boy who saved your life, who’s name you never even bothered to remember. A boy took your place that day, and it left his family destitute.”_

_“It wasn’t my fault!” He tried to shout but it came out weak and hoarse. It laughed, and Jon wanted to rip his own ears off. “I-I was eight, I was just a child-”_

_“But you never really stopped, did you? Never stopped being a burden, never stopped putting others in your trail of misery. What about Georgie?”_

_A hot stone of guilt burned in his stomach. God, it had been_ years _since…how on earth did this_ thing _know about Georgie?_

_“She was the closest friend you ever had,” it continued, “she put up with you when no one would even talk to you. What was it they used to call you around campus, Jonathan?” He shook his head desperately. “I can tell you, if you’ve forgotten-”_

_“Freak.” He spat it out, cringing. He hated that name more than anything else._

_“There was more.”_

_“R-retard, spaz, ps-psycho.” He trailed off into a sob. He had thought, when he got to Oxford, that maybe he’d finally escaped the teasing of the playground. That he was finally in a place with other people who loved learning just as much as he did, who would also love to rant about classics at three in the morning or spend whole nights watching silly documentaries. But Oxford was a place of status; he had known this of course, but he hadn’t truly_ known _it until he’d arrived there. It wasn’t as if he was some kind of working class hero, but he still wasn’t_ anyone _. He was an orphan from Bournemouth who wouldn’t shut up about Greek classics, and his passion didn’t get him very far amongst the status quo. With his race, his ever shifting relationship with gender and sexuality and him being autistic to choose from, the very latter was often picked up upon. People were mean, and rich white guys from generations of Oxford-educated men were some of the meanest._

_The last rather colourful name had come after he had been persuaded by a roommate to come to a freshers party, which he had decided to at least test the waters of. It was…uncomfortable, to say the least. The music was far too loud, everyone was talking over each other, and there was nothing decent to eat. He had ended up sitting in the corner with a book he had snagged from another room in the house when he’d seen it; A big, nasty looking spider, the kind you get in old English houses as the summer turns to autumn and the insects have grown big and fat over the hot season, soon to die in the long months of cold. It was around the size of his palm, and it was moving slowly across the wall. Towards his head._

_It had been a particularly bad meltdown, to say the least. On top of the barrage of noise and the social anxiety, he had stopped working, and he could only imagine the sounds he had been making. It wasn’t an uncommon sight to see people turn their heads and whisper under their breath when he entered a room after that. Then he had found Georgie, and things had been a bit easier. For a while._

_“They all knew you were worthless.” It’s voice wasn’t even trying to be malicious. Just...pitious. “They could sense it from you. Everyone did. Are you_ really _arrogant enough to believe they were_ all _wrong?”_

_“I...I haven’t done_ anything- _”_

_“It doesn’t matter. It’s not what you’ve done, it’s who you_ are _. Who you were born as. And you weren’t born to be like everyone else, Jonathan.”_

_“Who...who I was…?”_

_“Ask yourself this. If no one else in your life wants anything to do with you, then why has Elias brought you here?”_

_“What?”_

_There was no answer._

_“What does that_ mean?”

_Nothing._

_Cautiously, Jon raised one arm out from his protective huddle, and reached forward. There was nothing in front of him. No horrible hairy legs, no mass of eyes. He was alone again._

_He hid his face in his hands and took a deep breath, wishing for the first time in many years that he had a mothers voice in his memory to comfort him._

* * *

Everyone was sitting in the living room. Well, _almost_ everyone. 

Tim had opted not to sit on the sofa, or even one of the armchairs, instead standing in the doorway, arms crossed. He looked on edge, and Sasha could hardly blame him.

Georgie and Melanie were sitting together, one cradling the other, both absolutely exhausted by the looks of them. Next to them, squashed in tight were Basira and Daisy, looking as though they were trying their best to stay professional. Whatever that meant anymore. 

Martin, sat on his own in the armchair, as usual. The air around him wasn’t...cold, not like it used to be, before the big intervention in this same living room. But he still preferred to keep to himself, wherever possible. One night, after getting _very_ very drunk in the kitchen, Martin had spilled possibly more of his guts than he had intended to (without any prompting on Sasha’s part).

_“I’mma big guy,” he slurred a little. “Always have been y’know?” Sasha nodded attentively, trying not to make herself dizzy as she poured another glass of wine. “And…and it’s kinda hard to_ not _get in the way when you take up so much space, yeah? I mean…there’s so much of me!” He giggled, the way only a sad drunk is capable of doing, and placed his hands across the plush swell of his belly. “There’s so much…and I d-don’t mind, I_ don’t _, because like, all bodies are beautiful, right? I believe that, I think it’s true, but…my mum.” He paused for a good minute, before taking another long sip of his pink gin and soldiering on, “I think my m-mum would rather I was a ghost. So she could pass right through me. Th-then I wouldn’t have to take up any space at all, you know? Wouldn’t have to eat, or sit, or speak, because I’d be a ghost. I could never…never be too much.”_

_He lay his head down, cushioned by his arms on the table. Sasha had the inexplicable urge to run her hands through his short, curly hair. It was just so_ pettable _. Like a sheep. The best sheep there is; one who makes tea._

_“I don’t want to be a ghost. Ghosts are scary…and everything else is so scary all the time. So it’s just easier to make sure…make sure people aren’t touching me. That I'm not in the way. Then I never gotta…never gotta be too much.”_

He hadn’t said any more that night, and Sasha had eventually realised it was because he had fallen asleep. She had never thought to ask if he remembered the conversation at all, but he still opted to take the armchair over the sofa. No risk of “getting in anyone’s way” _,_ she supposed.

She stood in front of them all, feeling rather like a news anchor. She wasn’t quite sure where to start. Her unease didn’t go unnoticed. 

“Look, let’s not tiptoe around this.” Melanie said, the first to break the silence around this. “We killed Eli- _Jonah_ , found a guy underneath his house, a guy some of us _know_ , and he’s not okay. Now we need to try and help him. And we can’t properly do that until we know what happened. And _you_ ,” she pointed to Sasha, “know what happened. Or at least a bit of it. So lets start there.”

Sasha nodded, for once fully appreciating Melanie’s bluntness. She looked questioningly at Georgie, who nodded.

“Just tell us what you need to tell us,” Georgie said softly. “I’ll step outside if it’s too much, but please, just tell us.”

“Okay.” Sasha took a deep breath, closed her eyes, centred herself, and opened them again. “We, or more specifically, Daisy, Martin and Melanie found Jon in a hidden cellar beneath Jonah’s house. He was…scarred, heavily. Displaying evidence of repeated physical and…sexual abuse.” There was a sharp intake of breath from Georgie, but nothing from anyone else. Most had seen it after all, and those who hadn’t…well, she couldn’t see why they would be surprised. “He had been hurt recently, judging by some of his bruises, perhaps before we arrived, and he was gagged. Inside the gag...lodged inside his mouth...was this.”

She reached into the pocket of her cardigan and pulled out a cassette tape.

“I haven’t listened to it yet, I...wasn’t sure I wanted to do it alone, to be honest with you. But it wasn’t the only tape I found. The Eye led me through the house and up to a study where there were boxes and _boxes_ of tapes. But I knew- _it_ knew that they would be helpful. Informative, I guess. Everytime I tried to directly know about the tape it just…” She shut her eyes for a moment, pinching the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger. It was hard to describe the feeling. It was like being given a copy of war and peace and being told you had a minute to read the whole thing. It was far too much at once. “It wasn’t really working. I just took as many as I could and left, and then I saw him and I knew who it was.

“The tapes, the other tapes…I guess you could call them diaries. Audio taken inside the cellar, recordings of...o-of torture, and violence, conversations had with him. People who were seemingly _invited_ by Jonah, or people that just took him somewhere else entirely. I suppose Jon isn’t immune to being followed around by these things either. There are...some with avatars we know. Saying things to him, _doing_ things-” There was a tremor in her voice that she knew she had to get under control, but she had started and she couldn’t stop. “Making him _say_ and _do_ things. And he…I can’t date them all, the tapes, I don’t know how long they go back, but he…it’s been a long time, I think, since he’s been anywhere else. The way he talks, the way Jonah talks to him…” It’s like he’d been brainwashed. There wasn’t a single thing fake or exaggerated by the sheer self hatred in Jon’s trembling, whimpering voice in those tapes, in the sobs and the cries of _yes sir I know I deserve it, yes sir I’m so sorry sir, yes sir I’ll do better_. And Jonah…calm and collected always, even as he hit him, as he tortured him, as he…

She had lost her momentum. She didn’t think she could say another word if she tried.

So instead she held up the tape. 

She heard Martin rise slowly from his chair to approach her, gently taking the tape from her hand. His hands were colder than they should have been in Tim’s centrally heated living room.

“Sasha…” He whispered.

“So, are we going to play the tape?” Tim asked, shrugging his shoulders.

“ _Tim!”_

“What? We want to know what we can do, why Elias was _doing_ this to some poor guy who found a Leitner when he was still in primary school, and we have the tape that might just explain a thing or too right in front of us!”

“Sasha needs to _rest_ before-”

“We all need to rest-”

“Play it.”

Both men turned to the intrusion in their duologue. Georgie was sitting up straight on the sofa, her face ashen and hard set. Melanie had her hand firmly in her partners, but Georgie seemed barely able to register it there at all. 

“Georgie?” Melanie said softly. “Are you sure? You don’t have to be here for this if-”

“I’m going to be here to help him, aren’t I?” She countered. “If the rest of you are listening to it, then I need to as well. We can’t pick and choose the information we _want_ to know right now.”

“She’s right,” Basira chimed in. “We all need to hear it. Clearly...Jonah wanted us to find this. Whatever it is, even if it’s some bullshit gloating farewell speech...I’d rather know what it is.”

Everyone nodded. Basira didn’t usually say things that weren’t worth nodding at after all. All eyes on the room turned to Daisy, who upon realising this was less than comfortable with it.

Sasha saw Daisy eye the type. She and Daisy experienced hunger in _very_ different ways; knowledge and notetaking didn’t really cut it for the adrenaline junkies who made up the hunt, after all. But still, when Daisy looked at that tape, Sasha felt her hunger.

_She’s the one who found him, after all. The one who first got a proper look at him. Who can blame her for wanting to know more about the meal she doesn’t want to want?_

“Never thought I’d say this,” she sighed at last, “but I don’t suppose there’s a tape recorder knocking about anywhere, is there?”

* * *

_When Elias next visits, Jon is silent._

_Even as he turns on the light and comes down the stairs slowly, Jon doesn’t look up, doesn’t mouth off, doesn’t seem...ungrateful. The words of Mr Spider echo unbidden in his head. If no one else in your life wants anything to do with you, then why has Elias brought you here?_

_It had been a long (day? night? it was impossible to say in the dark) period of trying to deny those words, and finding little reasons against it. That along with just about everything else it had said. No one wanted Jon. His own grandmother hadn’t wanted him, Georgie hadn’t wanted him, not even a stable employer had wanted him, hence years of working freelance journalism gigs and whatever temporary research positions he could get his hands on. He was a freak. Apparently he had been born one._

_And maybe Elias knew why._

_Did Elias know why he had been chosen? Chosen by Mr Spider all those years ago, even if the choice hadn’t stuck? Even if by accident, someone had- no. Even if Jon had allowed someone else to take his place?_

_Elias stops when he’s standing above Jon, shining brogues inches away from his face. Jon can feel that he’s been watched, both by Elias’ glimmering, grey eyes and by the Other Eye, the one that never seemed to go away anymore._

_He said nothing. Just tried to enjoy the company and the light whilst it was there._

_There was a thud, and Jon flinched, breath hitching pathetically. There was a plastic water bottle, sealed and full, by his face. He looked up at Elias, eyes wide with shock and...gratitude._

_Elias turned around and left, turning off the light as he went._

_The minute he was gone, Jon's hands scrambled on the floor for the bottle, shaking hands attempting to twist off the cap before he gave up and twisted it off between his teeth, chugging down mouthfuls of lukewarm, slightly metallic water, worried he might cry with relief and lose water in the process. He had to stop and breathe deeply, terrified he’d vomit it back up, clutching the slowly emptying bottle to his chest. He made himself save the rest; Elias might not decide to bring water next time. He didn’t_ have _to, of course. It was kind of him to even think to bring it in the first place. To turn the light on when he came in, to even deign to keep an Eye on him…_

_God, what was wrong with him? Down in the dark for...for however long it had been, and he was losing it. He fisted his hands in his short hair, pulling and screwing his eyes shut. They’re trying to get to you, they’re trying to get to you, they’re trying to get to you…_

And what if they are?

Even if they’re saying all of this to make you feel bad...you can’t deny that everything Mr Spider has told you is true.

If it’s making you feel a certain way...maybe that’s because it’s the way you’re supposed to feel.

You’re supposed to feel guilty. You’re supposed to feel ashamed. You’re supposed to feel fucking worthless because maybe you are.

_He’s curled up in the corner, cradling the now half empty water bottle to his chest when it comes again._

_Jon doesn’t speak, waiting for it to make the first move._

_“You’re beginning to understand better, aren’t you?”_

_Jon nodded._

_“You’re here because you’re meant to be here. Because you’re supposed to be. We’ve made sure of that for you.”_

_He nodded again._

_“Would you like to know why?”_

_He looked up, for once glad of the dark, so he wouldn’t have to see the abomination in detail._

_“Elias will explain it to you, if you’re good for him tomorrow. If you sit to attention, don’t give him any lip, if you’re_ ready _to listen to him_. _He’ll tell you all about your new role.”_

_“My...my role?”_

_It smiled._

_“Oh yes, Jonathan. You have a_ very _very important role to play in what’s going to happen. You’re going to help us, all of us. As long as you do what Elias says, you can be helpful. Don’t you want to be helpful?”_

_Tears sprung to his eyes. Yes. God, yes, he wanted that so much._

_“Excellent. He’ll be so happy to hear, Jonathan. So proud. I think you may just be the best Archivist that the Institute has ever had.”_


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Hello,” he said softly. The cat said nothing, understandably.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who got their dissertation in!!!! This bitch!!! And now I have time for all the other stuff I do including this fic!! I'm so sorry this took so long but im so happy to have another update for you~
> 
> CW's for this chapter:  
> -Allusions to rape, torture and conditioning  
> -Negative self image  
> -Mentions of suicide idealization
> 
> Lemme know your thoughts! Your comments make me so so so happy

_Hello Sasha._

_If you’re listening to this tape, it most likely means you’ve succeeded in killing me. Or at least in killing Elias’ body. It served me as best as it could, though I’ll admit the lungs left a lot to be desired, not to mention the weeks of physical withdrawal. The consequences of using bodies you know won’t be missed, I suppose. Who knows where they’ve been?_

_It also means you’ve found your understudy._

_You’re not the first archivist to have shirked your responsibilities in lieu of some misguided mission of ‘saving the world’. At every opportunity to turn yourself over to the eye completely, you have remained unclaimed. Both you and your predecessor remained defiant against your own nature, uninterested in the role that the Archivist entails. I began to realise, early on, that it was becoming somewhat of a hopeless endeavor. Even if you did help me to create my perfect world under the Ceaseless Watcher, there’s no doubt you would find some way to ruin that too. Your spirit, battered as it may be, has remained unbroken._

_Now I would like you to turn your attention to the young man who provided you with this tape. If you haven’t simply left him under my house. The role of the archivist is to gather knowledge. With knowledge comes speculation, and with speculation comes defiance. This is where every archivist has gone wrong. I worked for years under the assumption that my archivist would have to be employed under me, housed within my institute along with the compromising information I’ve worked to gather.. But there are other ways to keep someone under your power._

_I met Jonathan Sims, a name I assume you know by now, when he came to give a statement at my archives a few years ago now. I know you’ve heard it; I’ll admit I feared you would know his current whereabouts once listening to his story, but I suppose it didn’t cross your mind. One horror story out of hundreds. And what a story it is, hm? A small, innocent boy coming across a book he deemed too childish which very nearly drove him into the lion's den._

_I suppose in some roundabout way it did._

_The web clung tight to Jonathan, whether he knew it or not. Fear clings to everyone who comes into my institute, but Jonathan was different. Gertrude was becoming a problem. So obsessed with stopping rituals, burning leitners, bringing down cults, her Archivist duties had been left firmly behind. The same has begun to happen to you, I’m sure._

_Maybe what I needed wasn’t an Archivist at all._

_Jonathan Sims had no living family, no real friends, and worked freelance. It was too easy to claim him for my own and start fresh. Not to say he didn’t put up a fight, he certainly gave it a good try, but once again, knowledge is the key. When you limit a person's knowledge, you control them. And I made him know everything I wanted him to know._

_It hardly matters what was true and what wasn’t._

_It was certainly true that there wasn’t even a missing persons report on him._

_But I digress._

_I’m sure you’ve realised by now why Smirkes rituals were always...imperfect. You see, the thing about the Fears is that they can never be truly separated from each other. When does the fear of sudden violence transition into the fear of hunted prey? When does the mask of the Stranger become the deception of the Spiral?_

_The solution, then, is simple: A new ritual must be devised which will bring through all the Powers at once. All fourteen, as I had hoped I could complete it before any new powers such as Extinction were able to fully emerge. All under the Eye’s auspices, of course. We mustn’t forget our roots._

_And there was only one being that could possibly serve as a lynchpin for this new ritual: The Archivist. A position that had so recently become vacant, thanks to Gertrude’s ill-timed retirement plans. Which is where you came in, her well trained successor._

_And what was the point of starting over again only to come up with the same, defiant Archivist who won’t embrace their role? In order to succeed, I needed my conduit to be completely ignorant._

_So I appointed a new ‘Archivist’, in secret. You may have taken on the role in name, Sasha, but never in spirit._

_Because the thing about the Archivist is that – well, it’s a bit of a misnomer. It might, perhaps, be better named: The Archive._

_Because The Archivist does not administer and preserve the records of fear, Sasha. The Archivist is a record of fear. I previously attempted this by feeding you the statements of the public, touched and marred as they are by Smirke’s 14, unaware of the bigger picture they contribute to._

_But Jonathan? He’s a library of live source material. A living chronicle of terror._

_I’m sure you can still count the marks from my attempts to claim you to all 14, though I did begin to abandon the project, with things going so well with Jonathan._

_Our little band of devotees have spent a good amount of time ensuring Jonathan’s compliance, and I trust he was well behaved when you found him. He’s learned to obey strangers very well by this point, most bad behaviours have been trained out of him. If you say the right string of words he’ll do just about anything for you. Pain is no longer an obstacle. He has felt the burning pain of destruction, the sickening invasion of the corruption, the heart pounding terror of being prey, the cold ache of isolation. Need I list them?_

_This is where, unfortunately, my hamartia took hold._

_I’m sure I don’t have to explain to you how intoxicating another's fear can be. How delicious the power you hold is. I’m sure you’ve noticed it in your friends already, how they react in his presence. Jonathan is a being marinated in fear. It got very hard not to tear myself away, as it was for the rest of us. Perhaps I share more with this body than I realise, for Jonathan’s fear truly was addictive. Jonathan’s ‘training’, if you wish to call it that, gave way to sheer indulgence, on my part and on the part of my assistants. I called in every favour I could to introduce Jonathan to representatives of the fears, but I soon had repeat visitors. I’m ashamed to say that I began to shirk my responsibilities regarding you, regarding your whole band of chaotic troublemakers. Perhaps this is how you’ve managed to get ahead of me, in which case I only have myself to blame._

_It was only when it was too late, we realised our mistake. Jonathan Sims, who had been taught to fear everything, who had learned every lesson regarding his new purpose through blood, tears and submission, stayed unafraid of just one thing._

_He never feared The End. The End had become a blessing he sought after, not something he shied away from in terror. Something he begged for more than once, no matter how much we tried to break the habit out of him. And when something is no longer feared, what power can it hold?_

_Thirteen fears is a good start, but without that final fourteenth, he was as good as useless to my ritual. For every fear is but a gateway to that final destination, a destination we continually denied him. I’ll admit, I lost my temper with him more than once._

_Not only was my secondary vessel a failure, but you had learned far more than you were ever meant to learn. My fault for not finding Gertrude’s tapes, admittedly, but I was always a little wary of looking through that woman’s mind. My Archivist had little fear, and my Archive had too much._

_I only wonder now what will become of the backup, when you find him. Will you abandon him? Dump him outside of a hospital and leave him alone? Or will you give in to his fear? And see just how beautifully obedient he can be?_

_I hope our confrontation won't be too pitiful, in the end. It’s not easy having hundreds of years of work fail on you once again. Jonathan has seen the extent of my frustrations, and I can only hope it hasn’t tired me out too much by the time we face off. I know you’ll be bringing your friends, and Elias’ body was never well suited to combat._

_Goodbye, Sasha._

* * *

The heavy vibrations against his face woke Jon, and when he opened his eyes all he saw was a blur of orange. He blinked, a confused tremor of anxiety working through his body, until he heard a small ‘mrrp’.

He rose to his elbows, and realised that those ‘vibrations’ against his face had been _purring_. In front of Jon, where he had been lying on the floor (atop a very generous nest of cushions and throw blankets) was the chunkiest, and grumpiest looking ginger cat he had ever seen. Seeing that Jon was awake and alert, the cat headbutted him gently, rubbing beneath his chin. Jon snorted in surprise, cringing back when the fur tickled him.

“Hello,” he said softly. The cat said nothing, understandably. Jon carefully maneuvered himself so that he sat up on his knees, and cautiously held out a hand. The cat sniffed it carefully before deciding it was good enough for scritches, and rubbing his head over the scarred, rough skin. Jon scratched behind their ears, muscle memory taking over. His flats had never allowed for cats back when...back before. But he had always loved them.

The cat seemed to be ready for the next level, and wandered up to settle on Jon’s jumper-covered lap. Jon was rather grateful that the cat didn’t feel the need to knead into his thighs, but instead rested their rather generous load of wait into his body. He felt… anchored, and warm all at once.

“Are you comfortable?” He asked gently, for lack of anything better to say. “The jumper is very nice.” The cat seemed to purr in agreement. “How did you get here? Have you been here the whole time?” He cast his eyes over to the door to the room (the plain, wooden door, just slightly ajar so that a certain cat could edge through, not the Other door), and shivered as he remembered _why_ he had suddenly woken up in here again. “Do you know who they are? They don’t seem like the others… they don’t really seem to know what to do. But she… S-Sasha said she was The Archivist. She said that-”

He cut himself off before he could descend into panic again. The cat snuggled up closer to him, burying themself into Jon’s thin frame. The heavy weight felt good, and managed to keep Jon’s panic at bay for a bit. He used to have a weighted blanket, back _before_ . But feeling weighed down, buried and restricted… he had learned now that these things were not allowed to provide comfort for him. Comfort wasn’t for him to have, it wasn’t his _purpose_ to have. But with Elias _gone_ … what did that mean for his purpose? 

Maybe these people really didn’t know what he was meant for. When they realised he was worthless, just damaged goods that had no real use to anyone anymore, what would they do to him? No more hot meals, no more cosy jumper. Elias was gone, but maybe they’d hand him off to the church, or to the pack. Maybe Peter would take him in.

_Not that he has any obligation to, you know he likes to be alone. Why should he take you when you’re no good to anyone anymore? He should just leave you in the lonely place for good, if he decides to come and visit it won’t be because you deserve the company…_

An irritated “mraow” from his lap drew his attention.

“Sorry, sorry. Uh, do you like belly rubs?” He was rewarded with an eager stretch and a plump, soft cat belly in desperate need of rubs. The fur was so nice under his hand, and he had to restrain himself from just burying his face into the fur. “Right, belly rubs. Good cat.”

His hand kept up the absent, soothing massage of the cat's plush belly, luxuriating in the soft texture against his fingertips, and looked at the nest he had woken up in. They hadn’t put him back in the bed, and it set him just a little more at ease. Things were easier on the floor. That didn’t mean he wouldn’t get into the bed if they asked, but…

Martin had been… _very_ insistent in not wanting to use him that way, and Jon couldn’t see any reason for him to be lying for this long. Not _everyone_ had wanted That from him, but most had taken advantage of the opportunity. An additional perk in his training. 

It didn’t matter what Martin did or didn’t want to do, anyways, because he would just do it. So there was no point catastrophizing over it. If Martin wanted to use him, that was his right.

As if on queue, footsteps began to echo down the corridor. He froze. He should get into the proper position, really, head pressed to the floor, eyes down. But his lap was still full of cat. His palms began to sweat.

“... still asleep?”

“I don’t know, he didn’t really fall _asleep_ , just kind of passed out.”

“He used to have fainting spells a lot, back at uni, he’d come around fairly soon after though.”

“Oh yeah, I remember! That one time at the pride picnic where he stood up and just conked out.”

“ _Melanie._ ”

“Sorry.”

“It wasn’t really a fainting spell, so much as a, uh, panic attack. He just got a bit overwhelmed and he couldn’t catch his breath.”

“...right.”

Jon recognised the voices. One was Martin, the other Mel- _Not_ Melanie, and the third…

Sasha had said her name, earlier. But it wasn’t _possible_ ; why would Georgie ever come to see him? She didn’t have any interest in seeing him, Elias had made that perfectly clear.

 _You think she would ever have had you back? You were a_ leech _, Archivist. You sapped every bit of brightness and goodness out of her, every bit of energy and patience. Every party that you embarrassed yourself at, every gig that you had to leave because you couldn’t handle a bit of loud music, every night where you lay beside her and did_ nothing _, why on earth would she have wanted to stay with you? What could you possibly offer to her? She’s not looking for you, she’s relieved you never bothered to contact her again. She didn’t want you, but I do. And I’m going to help you to be better…_

A soft knock on the door startled him. The cat lifted their head and ambled over to the door, tail swishing curiously in the air. Jon held his breath, and looked down at his lap. There was cat hair all over Martin’s nice jumper. They would know he hadn’t been kneeling, like he should be when he was waiting. What if they didn’t like him touching the cat? Could he explain that the cat had crawled onto his lap of its own will? Would it even matter? He rubbed at the jumper as best he could, trying desperately to pick the fur out, but it was too hard with his trembling fingers.

“Jon? Are you awake? I was just coming to- oh, hello Admiral. How did you get in here?”

Jon looked up sharply. The cat, “Admiral”, had edged out of the door, and a plump hand had appeared to stroke his head. The door creaked open a little more, and he saw Martin, bent down with an endearing look on his face as he spoke to the cat. It was the most calm he had seen him yet. Behind him stood “Melanie”, who had her arm around…

Georgie.

He wondered if he had said her name out loud, because her head shot up and looked across at him. 

The world crumbled around him as his head pressed itself into the floor.

She couldn’t be real, couldn’t be here. But she didn’t _feel_ like a stranger, the same way Melanie didn’t. But it couldn’t be possible, it couldn’t be…

“Jon?”

Martin was by his side, hands fluttering and unsure. Jon tried to get enough air into his body to say something, anything.

“I got cat fur on your jumper,” was all he was able to get out.

“Oh! Oh, that’s okay, honestly. The Admiral sheds a lot, even in winter. I always end up with cat fur somewhere when I see him. I’m not upset or anything! Just in case you were worried. Was it okay, him roaming around up here? We can keep him away if he makes you nervous.” Jon was too stunned to do anything but nod. “Oh, good! Yeah, he’s a good cat. Likes cuddles a lot. So, uh…, Georgie’s here. Do you…do you remember Georgie?”

He nodded reluctantly. 

“Do you want to talk to her? You don’t have to, if you don’t want to.”

He lifted his head a fraction, and looked out past Martin. Georgie was still in the doorway, huddled and unsure in a way that Georgie _never_ was but...it was her. wholly and unmistakably, not like the other imitations Elias had tried to pass off as her. And if Georgie was really here then...there had been hoax rescues in the _past_ but…

Why would anyone think to rescue him?

Georgie caught his eye, and Jon couldn’t tear his gaze away, not even as she headed towards him. She hadn’t changed that much, not really. She’d grown her hair out, the tightly cropped curls that Jon used to absently run his fingers through now a modest afro, and she seemed to have swapped out her contact lenses for a pair of glasses. She had always worried that glasses made her look too ‘matronly’. They suited her.

He wondered how different he looked. How pathetic.

“You’re not a Stranger,” was what eventually came out of his mouth. He cringed the moment he heard it, squeezing his eyes shut tight. There was a pause.

“No, I’m not.” A pause again. “Jon… I’m so, _so_ sorry.”

Her breath hitched, and Jon knew that meant she was about to cry. She sounded like that whenever they got to the end of Lord of the Rings, or when she had hard days at work, back in the campus coffee shop. He looked up. Martin had gone to wait in the corridor, leaving just him and Georgie together.

Where did he even start? What did he apologise for first? Why was _she_ apologising? He was the one who had fucked everything up, who had been such a mess of a human being that any kind of relationship was impossible, who had kept her from doing stuff by being sensitive and stubborn and frustrating as hell. She hadn’t done anything wrong.

Instead he just shook his head, raising himself up enough to at least give Georgie the decency to look him in the face.

“Why-” he cringed. 

“You can ask questions, it’s okay.” Georgie said quickly. Sasha must have informed her of that new house rule, he thought.

“Why...why are you here?”

“Melanie called me, when they found you,” she explained. He shook his head.

“N-no...why did you come?” 

“Jon… I know the last time we saw each other wasn’t great, but I always wanted to stay in touch with you! We didn’t fully work out as a couple, but you were still my friend. Of _course_ I came, I came as soon as I heard you were here!” Jon shook his head again, fingers clawing in frustration and panic.

“Y-you shouldn’t...I’m...b-bad, I was a b-bad partner and a bad friend. I was- _am_ bad, f-for you, for everyone...you shouldn’t be here. You should just leave me alone.” He took a deep breath, but it caught in his throat.

“Jon, that’s not true.”

“J-just forget about me again, please, I-I need to be b-back, with Elias, s-so I can be good again, please, j-just take me back or j-just get on with it and do whatever you _want_ with me, but…” he choked. “Please, I just want to be good…”

He was suddenly scooped up, big soft arms lifting him off of the floor and pressing him up against a plush chest, his face pressed up against a shoulder where loose curls of hair were tickling his nose. His body tried to cry out in surprise, but it broke off into a choked squeal. He was gripped tight, firm and warm, a grip so familiar it made his eyes sting.

“I didn’t tolerate you talking bad about yourself back in Uni, and I won’t _now,_ Jonathan Sims.” Georgie buried her face into his bony shoulder, seeming to take as much comfort from the embrace as Jon did. “We’re here. You don’t have to be good anymore, you don’t have to be hurt anymore. We won’t let it happen, we _won’t_ . You’re safe. I promise you you’re _safe_.”

“Y-you… Elias-”

“Was a liar. Whatever he said, it was a lie.” Jon shook his head frantically; to call Elias a _liar_ , it didn’t bear thinking about. “It _was_. And you’ll never see him again, not ever.”

He sank into Georgie just a little more.

He couldn’t accept that truth, not yet. Elias was everything. Elias had broken him down and rebuilt him better, made him into someone worth having around. Elias had given him a _purpose_. Without him… Jon couldn’t go back to the person he used to be. The stubborn, standoffish, unlovable person with no friends or family to speak of.

He let Georgie hug him, and tried not to think about how much it would hurt when she remembered why she had left in the first place.

* * *

There was a reason Peter made an effort to avoid the Fairchilds whenever possible.

He had never been one to show up for any of Jonah’s doner parties, and their paths had never crossed on a professional level. Even when Simon had begun to have his visits with Jon, he had made sure to keep his distance. 

It was nothing personal, but the Vast… tended to rub the wrong way with the Lonely.

Simon was stirring his tea far louder than was necessary, his obnoxious antique teaspoon clinking against the bone china.

“Hm,” Simon said at last. “That’s troubling.”

“That’s all you have to say?” Peter grunted.

“What else would you have me say? Jonah’s dead and his favourite toy has gone walkies.”

“You don’t seem very upset about this.” 

“No, I suppose I’m not.” He sighed, leaning forward and catching Peter’s eye before he could look away. “Well, if you ask me… we’re doing alright as we are, without a world ending event.” Peter couldn’t argue with that. “But Jonah... Jonah was a very single-minded man, when it came to his Great Plan. At least he _was_ , before that little spider scuttled into his institute.” He slurped his tea, and Peter set his jaw tight. “It was inevitable, Peter. That archivist of his is a real piece of work, you can tell she was Gertrude’s project. She’s got that woman’s fingerprints all over her. Of course the minute Jonah stopped paying attention she got the jump on him.”

“And what about the Archivist? The _other_ one?” He pushed, trying not to let his frustration get the better of him. Simon shrugged.

“What about him?”

“He’s gone, how do we find him?” Simon smiled.

“Miss him already, do you?” 

“What are you talking about?” Peter snarled.

“Oh _please_ , I saw how much the lonely clung to that little spider. He’s been in and out of your domain like a fiddlers elbow! I had my fun with the creature, let the record show, he was well trained, but _you_ , I’m surprised you didn’t kill Jonah to keep the little archivist for yourself!”

“You don’t know anything.” He pushed himself away from the table, leaving his tea untouched. It was stone cold as it was.

“Oh, don’t I? He’s _changed_ you, Peter. You couldn’t even keep ahold of that Blackwood fellow, and he was a sure catch! You’re distracted. You would have claimed the little mite in a second if Jonah hadn’t gotten to him first.”

“You should mind your own business.”

Simon laughed. It set Peter’s teeth on edge; it was the kind of laugh that sent his stomach plummeting. Vertigo given sound.

“What were you expecting, coming to me? Do you want to round up everyone who ever laid a hand on him, get a mob together? We had our fun with him, Peter. If he were here right now, then yes, I wouldn’t hesitate to have my fun again! But there are other marks.” He slurped at his tea, never breaking eye contact. “If you want him, you’re going to have to find him yourself. Not your strong suit, I know.” He sighed. “A shame you don’t have your omniscient boyfriend.”

“He wasn’t my boyfriend.”

“Of course he wasn’t.”

He sighed, and turned to leave, waving off the butler that opened the front door for him. He had nothing; there was no record of employee home addresses at the institute (Jonah wouldn’t have needed to bother keeping that kind of thing on record), none of them had checked in at the institute for a good week or so before Jonah’s death, and Rosie had heard nothing (and even if he didn’t trust what she had to say, it’s not like he could force it out of her).

But there was still one more connection that hadn’t burned away from him.

Martin had left his mark, when he had broken away from The Lonely. The gaping hole in his domain had yet to be properly healed over, and there would be a trail left behind. He still had a tie. A weak one, perhaps, but it was something. 

He just needed someone to follow it.

He wasn’t fond of hunters, but his prey was getting away much faster than he’d ever anticipated.


End file.
